Seema Golestaneh - Unknowing and The Everyday - Sufism and Knowledge in Iran-Duke University Press (2023)

unknowing and the everyday
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Unknowing
and the
Everyday
sufism and knowledge in iran
Seema Golestaneh
duke university press Durham and London 2023

© 2023 duke university press
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Project Editor: Ihsan Taylor
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Golestaneh, Seema, [date] author.
Title: Unknowing and the everyday : Sufism and knowledge in Iran / Seema Golestaneh.
Description: Durham : Duke University Press, 2023. | Includes bibliographical references
and index.
Identifiers: lccn 2022030463 (print)
lccn 2022030464 (ebook)
isbn 9781478019534 (paperback)
isbn 9781478016892 (hardback)
isbn 9781478024170 (ebook)
Subjects: lcsh: Sufism—Iran. | Sufis—Religious life—Iran. | Mysticism—Islam—Iran. | Iran—
Religious life and customs. | Iran—Social life and customs—21st century. | bisac: social
science / Anthropology / Cultural & Social | history / Middle East / Iran
Classification: lcc bp188.8.I7 g65 2023 (print) | lcc bp188.8.I7 (ebook) |
ddc 297.4—dc23/eng/20220817
lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022030463
lc ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.g ov/2022030464
Cover art: Azita Panahpour, Shattered Poems No. 27, 2017. Acrylic on canvas,
44 in. × 56 in. × 1 in. Courtesy of the artist.
Duke University Press gratefully acknowledges the Hull Memorial

Publication Fund of Cornell University, which provided funds toward
the publication of this book.
This book is dedicated to
Lila, Nasser, and Parisa
(Maman, Baba, Abji)
contents
ix Acknowledgments
xv Prologue
1 Introduction
29 1 Sufism in Iran, Iran in Sufism
59 2 Unknowing of Text, Unknowing of Authority
96 3 Unknowing of Self, Unknowing of Body
135 4 Unknowing of Memory
165 5 Unknowing of Place
189 Postscript
193 Notes
211 Bibliography
225 Index
acknowle dgments
I owe my greatest debt to all t hose who shared their wisdom,

thoughts, ideas, and dreams with me. In this text, they go entirely
unnamed, and it is from this place of strange obfuscation that this
project takes shape. These individuals were endlessly generous in so
many ways, carving time out of their busy days, always demonstrat-
ing infinite patience and kindness with me. Some I met only a few
times, and o thers I have had the great pleasure and honor of weaving
into my life. I can only offer these words in the text as a too poor
thank-you to all those who go unrecognized here.
A great deal of gratitude is owed to my own “masters of the path”
who have provided both guidance and inspiration. I must first thank
my PhD advisor, Marilyn Ivy, whose support, intellectual rigor, and
inspiring approach to the discipline of anthropology have been as
invaluable as they have been instrumental. For her guidance and
insight, and for believing in me before I believed in myself, I w ill
always be grateful. An enormous debt is owed as well to Brinkley
Messick, who guided me through the daunting terrain of Islamic
studies, and from whom I could have asked for no richer an educa-
tion. His deep enthusiasm for the field and reassuring nature were
truly invaluable. Setrag Manoukian has read more iterations of this
project than anyone else, and I could not be more grateful to have
as an interlocutor and mentor someone whose intellectual acumen
and insight into the anthropology of Iran and Islam is matched only
by his kindness and generosity of spirit. His work inspired from the
earliest stages of my research, and continues to do so today. Michael
Taussig, who introduced me to anthropology as a first-year under-
graduate at Barnard College, continues to provoke and surprise in
the most unexpected of ways. This project was also greatly enhanced
by conversations with Rosalind Morris on the ethnographic imagina-
tion and anthropological ethics, Severin Fowles on the possibilities of
thinking through materiality and aesthetics, Brian Larkin on sound and
mediation, and with the late Peter Awn on the question of language and
Islamic mysticism.
As a postdoc at Connecticut College, I was able to pause and think
more slowly about the project as a whole, a reframing that was enhanced
by conversations with Catherine Benoit, Sheetal Chhabria, Eileen Kane,
David Kim, Christopher Steiner, and Sufia Uddin. Augustine O’Keefe was
a wonderful friend who made suburban living infinitely better. I learned
greatly from my colleagues at my first tenure-track job at the Central Eur-
asian Studies Department at Indiana University, whose inspiring work
allowed me to put my project in conversations with historians and litera
ture scholars of the early modern and modern Persianate world. For this, I
thank Margaret Graves, Paul Losensky, Asma Afsaruddin, Huss Banai,
Gardner Bovingdon, Jamsheed Choksy, Devin DeWeese, Marianne Kamp,
Ron Sela, and Nazif Shahrani. I will always be grateful for Purnima Bose’s
mentorship and friendship while at Indiana and beyond. She was under
no obligation to take me under her wing, but I am so appreciative that she
did. And who knew I would meet one of my very favorite interlocutors
and intellectual partners in crime, Nur Amali Ibrahim, in the wilds of the
Midwest. Similarly, I thank Clémence Pinaud, my favorite wild w oman, for
her irreverence, kindness, and unfailing support.
At Cornell, I have had the extremely good fortune to encounter individ-
uals as generous as they are intellectually gifted, especially my colleagues
in the Department of Near Eastern Studies, from whom I have learned a
great deal. Extra thanks are due to Jonathan Boyarin, Lori Khatchadou-
rian, Ziad Fahmy, and Deborah Starr for their mentorship and friendship.
I have also benefited greatly from conversations with colleagues in the De-
partment of Anthropology, who have been so welcoming, as well as Anne
Blackburn, Iftikhar Dadi, Andrew Hicks, Chiara Formichi, Durba Ghosh,
Mostafa Minawi, Tejasvi Nagarja, Juno Salazar Parrenas, Eric Tagliocozzo,
Noah Tamarkin, and Robert Travers. A special thank-you to Begum Adalet,
David Bateman, Anndrea Matthews, Prachi Patankar, Natasha R aheja, and
Parisa Vaziri for being such wonderful company and making life in the
northern lands so much fun.
This project has benefited immensely from those who have read chapter
drafts, including Anne Blackburn, Jonathan Boyarin, Marina Antic, Margaret
Graves, Guadeloupe Gonzalez, Michelle Hwang, Nur Amali Ibrahim,
William McAllister, Setrag Manoukian, Izabela Potapowicz, David Powers,
Ayana O. Smith, Anand Taneja, and Darryl Wilkinson. Thanks to all for
x acknowle dgments
the labor of reading often very inchoate thoughts and gnarly sentences.
I am particularly grateful to Emilio Spadola for his insightful comments
on an early draft of the entire manuscript. Of course, before (and while)
there is the writing process t here is speaking, and as such this project has
been shaped by conversations with Sonia Ahsan-Tirmzi, Elizabeth A ngell,
Randi Asher, Hasan Azad, Jon Carter, Deniz Duruiz, Partha Chatterjee, Julia
Fierman, Sayo Ferro, Aimee Genell, Behrooz Ghamari-Tabrizi, Guangtian
Ha, Niloofar Haeri, Pedram Khosronejad, Seung Jung Kim, Christine
Marrewa Karwoski, Jason Mohaghegh, Amir Moosavi, Olivia Nichols,
Stefania Pandolfo, Gaurav Pant, Swatika Rajaram, Zainab Saleh, Annika
Schmeding, Christina Sornito Carter, Matthew West, and Tyler Williams.
I am particularly fortunate to have wrestled through ideas with Neda Bo-
lourchi, Fatima Mojaddedi, and Manuel Schwab. I learned so much from
the brilliant Sarah Vaughn, especially how to think anthropologically, and
always had such fun while d oing it. I am thankful for the hours and hours
spent talking with and learning from Farbod Honarpisheh, my fellow
shahrestani, about Iran, aesthetics, politics, and everything u nder the sun.
And to my dissertation writing group, Robert Brink, Joel Bordeaux, Shan-
non Garland, Benjamin Johnson, Sarah Lazur, and José Antonio Ramírez
Orozco, who somehow made writing on a sunny Sunday in August seem
like a good idea. Arunabh Ghosh’s kindness and forbearance supported
this project during a critical phase, and for this I am grateful.
This research required me to learn how to listen to music and sounds in
ways unfamiliar to me, and I first encountered new ways of listening during
my time at wkcr-fm ny and my conversations with its brilliant, eccentric,
and wholly lovable volunteer staff. The station could not have existed with-
out the tireless efforts of Benjamin Young and the late Phil Schapp, and
their lifelong commitment to the strangest of all musical sounds.
In graduate school, two individuals w ere beyond instrumental in shap-
ing my writing process. William McAllister’s support and reassurance,
as well as his ability to finagle a working space for his late-stage PhD stu-
dents still hanging around the joint, could not have been more invaluable.
As intellectually curious as he is kind, I wish there were more people in the
academy like Bill. Dr. Shirley Matthews and her “Getting Things Done”
working group at Columbia taught me to re-think my writing process and
I have never looked back. Th ere was a reason we all referred to her as “Saint
Dr. M.”
This project was made possible through the generous support of several
institutions and programs: the Institute for Religion, Culture, and Public
acknowle dgments xi
Life, the Columbia University Graduate School of Arts and Science Dis-
sertation Travel Grant, the Middle East Institute Dissertation Writing
Fellowship, the Interdisciplinary Center for Innovative Theory and Em-
pirics (incite)’s Mellon Dissertation Fellowship, the Mellon c3 Minor-
ity Postdoctoral Fellowship, and Indiana University’s College of Arts and
Humanities Institute Research Fellowship. I appreciate the backing of each
institution and fellowship in making possible this endeavor from the earli-
est initial stages of fieldwork through publication. A version of chapter 5
appeared in the Journal of the American Academy of Religion, and I thank
the editors for the opportunity and reviewers for their thoughtful com-
ments. I am grateful to Elizabeth Ault, my editor at Duke University Press,
for all her support, encouragement, insights, and good humor in guiding
this project to fruition. Benjamin Kossak, and the entire production team
were so helpful, and it was a pleasure to work with them. I am especially
appreciative of the endless patience and guidance of Ihsan Taylor; I truly
could not have asked for a better project editor.
To my hosts in Iran, who include family biological and adopted, I will
be forever indebted. Their companionship and help in navigating the t rials
and tribulations of life in Iran made my time t here immeasurably better.
Thank you to Vida Khanum Shahnasser, Ahmad Agha Tabaizadeh, Kha-
noom Sadat Golestaneh, Hajj Agha Mahmood Golestan, Agha Hossein
Vatani, and Khanum Hediye Mohadammadian. To my friends in Iran, saale
bad dar Kerman. To my many, many family members, who went out of their
way to include me in an endless array of gatherings of various persuasions,
insisted on making the long drive to the airport to pick me up despite my
protestations, and made sure they brought to my attention e very single
iteration of “Sufi” they could, I owe a tremendous amount. In particul ar, I
wish to thank Akhtar Golestaneh, Mansour Golestaneh, Houshang Shahn-
asser, Yekta Amiri, Diba Fesharaki, Setare Golestaneh, Soheil Golestaneh,
Elnaz Kamazani, Nasser Kamazani, Rameen Kamazani, Marjan Masoudi,
Farzaneh Norouzi, Hamid Shahnasser, Mina Shahnasser-Kamazani, Sanaz
Shahnasser, Soheil Shahnasser, Venous Shahnasser, Shahnaz Shahramfar,
Ali Tabaizadeh, Mohammad Tabaizadeh, Shayan Tabaizadeh, and Shirin
Tabaizadeh. Double thanks are owed to my aunt Khanoom Vida Shahn-
asser for parsing through innumerable mystical texts with me at various
libraries and bookstores, and for the great kindness she has always be-
stowed upon me. And to my late grandmother Parichehreh, whose love
was so strong that I still feel it acutely some twenty-eight years a fter she
xii acknowle dgments

is gone, and who forever s haped the way I view Iran and faraway worlds
different from my own.
This book would not have been possible without the support of my
closest friends. Thank you to Zoe Kelly-Nacht, who has done everything
from read chapter drafts to laugh at the absurdity of it all, and always with
such warmth. I thank Anand Taneja for always being such a supportive
friend, for our conversations that cover everything from al-ghayb to silly
jokes, and for his inspiring work. My writing group, who have become so
much more, Michelle Hwang, Ama Awowti, and Tamar Blickstein have
listened to the painful minutiae of the progression of this project, from ear-
liest chapter drafts to book copyedits, with infinite patience and always a
kind and encouraging word. What a gift I have in them. I am so grateful for
my decades-long friendships with Leanne Tory-Murphy and Laura Wald-
man, who always inspire with their thoughts and ideas, equal parts wise
and irreverent, and always deeply ethical. Sophia-Stamatopoulou Robbins
and Kaet Heupel’s enthusiasm for anthropological thinking and insight-
ful and compassionate ways in which they view the world make them an
incomparable joy to be around.
Most importantly, I thank my f amily. The nonhuman are f amily too,
so thank you to Maggie and Lily B for being my best friends and protec-
tors, and for always putting everything in perspective. To my brother-in-
law Elliot, whose good cheer always provides a welcome respite from the
difficulties of writing. To my sister Parisa, for whom selflessness seems to
come as second nature, for her tireless support and unwavering belief in
my abilities, I express my deepest gratitude. If only everyone had a s ister
like I do, what a better world it would be. Little Siavash has brought our
family a joy like no other. Together we w ill write some books that have
more pictures in them. I am indebted to my baba Nasser, the last of the
poets, who instilled in me a steadfast belief in the transformative power of
the written word, and whose great sacrifices have made it that much easier
for me to take on a line of work that did not seem an option to him. And
how does one thank a mother? My maman Lila, who has stood with me
like no other, aiding me in this endeavor in every conceivable fashion and
yet still in more ways than she knows. The love that she has bestowed upon
me has formed the lens through which I see the world.
And to Darryl, whom I could thank for d oing everything for this project
from the most tiresome of copyedits to speaking through the thorniest of
conceptual arguments, for tirelessly expressing his unwavering belief in me
acknowle dgments xiii

and this book, for sharing in all the highs and lows, but whom ultimately,
I will thank for being himself. The Sufis have taught me the beauty of the
unknown, and I could ask for no better companion to venture into these
open waters with together.
For all the shortcomings of this text I bear sole responsibility, as they
are mine and mine alone.
xiv acknowle dgments

prologue (pish dar-a mad)
Sometimes, in Isfahan, a river appears. When it is t here, it runs

straight through the heart of the city, from west to east. The river
Zayandeh runs 400 kilometers long and in the city of Isfahan proper
it is between 150 and 300 meters wide, and hundreds of years ago the
Shahs built six footbridges so that p eople and h orses could cross it
with ease. Since then, the wide banks have been transformed into
parks full of flowers and greenery.
Today, however, sometimes these footbridges are not necessary
because the river has been rerouted to Qom Province, to provide
water for farmers there feeling the effects of desertification. And so,
for months at a time, Zayandeh’s bed is completely dry and hence
passable by foot, cracks in the earth noticeable as you make the
strange and unsettling walk across it, as if you are walking across a
moonscape in the middle of a lush park. Sometimes football games
pop up in the wide expanse of the river where a current once ran.
When the water returns, the people come out in droves to its
banks, as if to see for themselves that the rumors are true: the river
had come back to Isfahan. Families small and large, groups of young
people, g aggles of girls and boys, old men in blazers and wool hats,
ladies in elegantly draped black chadors; all are present. When the
waters first started being rerouted, the opening and closing of the
river was more dramatic; p eople were brought to tears at the return
of the w
aters, as if overcome with relief that indeed it was real, it
was real, the river was a river once more, a current flowed through
Isfahan again, and all was water, light, and sound. Now the inhabit-
ants have become accustomed to the unpredictable rhythms of their
fickle river, and while its reappearance is still met with gratitude, it is
not as quite as heartrending as during those initial years.
And yet, what a river it is. When the river Zayandeh is full and
flowing in springtime, and the flowers are in full bloom, to walk the
banks of the river of Isfahan is to experience a beauty of historical pro-
portions. There is an easy serenity to these riverbanks; the gardens are
not ostentatious or overly manicured, but as relaxed and easy as a sigh.
The flowers’ heady perfumes transport you somewhere so that you are at
once deeply present, immersed as you are in the sensory perception of the
present time and place, and very much elsewhere, all at the same time.
xvi prologue
And those i magined things which are common and proverbial
among people of any group, village, or town should not be
disregarded openly as long as they are the subjects of
attention. For, as a result of the attention paid to them by
these souls, they give rise to some effects.
hajj sheikh muhammad hasan salih ’ali shah,
spiritual leader of the nimatullahi sultanalishah
sufi order, pand-e saleh, 1939
Introduction
Isfahan
August 2012
It was Friday, the day of rest, but Elaheh had still gone to work. A
young woman in her late twenties, she had a degree in architectural
design but, unable to find work in her field of choice, had two jobs
instead: one working in a half-time IT position, the other tutoring
high school students in math. She also did some Web design on the
side when the opportunity presented itself, and it was a meeting
with a potential client for this specialty that she had attended t oday.
Needless to say, she was tired.
I had wanted to talk to Elaheh about her experiences with Sufism
and, despite her fatigue, she did not cancel our meeting. She was not
born into a “family of Sufis” (khanevade darvishi), but had started
attending meetings some years ago after hearing about them from
a friend, and said she had called herself a Sufi for several years now.
We spoke about her love of the “endlessness of meanings” (tamoom
nadare) in the Qur’an and Persian poetry (adabiyat), the constant
remembrance of the mysteries of God at all times, and how meetings
left her with “an open heart” (del baz). Given her busy and unpre-
dictable schedule, however, she did not make the meetings as regu-
larly as she would have liked. The meetings themselves, held either
Thursday night or Friday, had also grown increasingly infrequent and
irregularly scheduled—sometimes alternating weeks, other times
occurring several weeks in a row then nothing—which also made
going more difficult.
“Whenever I go, I always enjoy myself. Especially when the readings are
of [the poet] Sa‘adi, and I like how those t hings they say have great applica-
tion [amal] for me. . . . But it’s hard to coordinate sometimes: I d on’t know
when I will have the time, and also if there is a meeting at all that week. So,
you see, it’s both my being able to go, and they being able to have a meet-
ing! But I always try to go when I can, it’s good for my spirit [ruhiyeh]!”
Compounding the issue was that Elaheh had applied for a master’s degree
program in Malaysia and was waiting to hear if she had been accepted,
and, in the event of her admittance, if there was also scholarship money.
She was doubtful about her chances for acceptance, however, and she had
heard a rumor that Malaysian universities were taking fewer Iranian stu-
dents t hese days, b ecause of “something to do with Russia.” Despite the
uncertainties she faced, she remained upbeat: “I w ill always love mysti-
cism, and God willing I can continue, perhaps even on my own, but I’m
just not sure about my plan for next year. For now I’ll keep going, though,
and then we will see what happens later.”
We started our way back to the street to catch the bus when two young
boys selling fortunes (fal) on scraps of papers approached us: “Four for-
tunes for a toman, m a’am; come on then, buy something from me!” I
turned over a bill to the boys and Elaheh and I both took a fortune. As is
always the case, the “fortune” was actually a verse from a poem. I read mine
aloud first. It was from Mawlana, also known as Rumi:
Andam keh mara beh gherd-e to doran ast

Saqi o sharab o qadah-o dor an ast
Vandam keh tora tajjali-e ehsan ast
Jan dar heyrat cho Musi-e Umran ast.
The moment in which I turn round and round, circulating

It is the age of wine, the wine-bearer, and the cup
And in that moment of kindness which you have made manifest
In amazement I am like Moses, son of Umran.
Elaheh rolled her eyes and laughed: “This one is always drunk!” she said,
meaning Rumi. She turned to hers next. It was yet another by Rumi:
Ey aql boro keh aqel inja nist

Ghar moy shavo moy-e to ra ghunja nist
2 Introduction
Ruz amad o ruz har cheraghi keh furokht
Dar sholeh-e aftab joz rusva nist.
O reason, begone! There is no wiseman h ere

There is no room for you h ere, even for the finest of your hairs
The day has come, and whatever lamp gives light
Is shamed by the face of the sun’s bright glare.
“Not exactly his best,” I remarked, unimpressed. After a moment had

passed, Elaheh expressed her disagreement: “No, you see, it’s actually
kind of interesting. Light and the intellectual are always supposed to go to-
gether, right?” H ere she used the Persian word for intellectual: roshanfekr,
literally “the light thinker” or “the lit thinker.” She began to speak more
quickly and more impassionedly: “But Rumi is saying that the reasoned
thinking of the intellectual w ill always be less than that of the sun, the
light and knowledge of God. This is what we must think about: t here is
always that which is beyond what we are thinking!” And at this declaration
of one’s own limitations, Elaheh seemed overjoyed.
What does it mean, to think “there is always that which is beyond what we
are thinking”? To not only recognize that the cognitive capabilities of the in-
tellectual pales in comparison to the knowledge of God, but then to position
oneself at that very threshold, that precipice where the capabilities of h uman
thought are said to end? In other words, what does it mean to recognize the
endpoint of human thinking not as a terminus but as a beginning? Within
certain iterations of the Islamic mystical tradition, to better understand and
approach this mode of thought one must utilize a specific type of knowl-
edge. This type of knowledge is called ma‘rifat, an epistemology often called
gnosis in English but which I translate h ere as “unknowing.”
Over the course of nearly a decade of fieldwork in Iran, including an
extended period of time from 2009 through 2011, I worked with various
Sufi groups whose members w ere deeply invested in this form of unknow-
ing, among other ideas. I say “this form” because the understandings and
interpretations of ma‘rifat are myriad and vast, but for the sake of this
project I use the word to indicate the particular hermeneutic stance of my
interlocutors.
Intriguingly, what I found was that discussions of ma‘rifat w ere not
only relegated to the page but that interpretations of ma‘rifat spilled out
Introduction 3
onto the street, accompanying its practitioners into situations foreseen
and unforeseen, into the smallest corners of life and its widest expanses,
just as countless theological concepts before it have also been carried in
the pockets of their practitioners. Mysticism has too often been dismissed
as only belonging to the world of the abstract and far removed from the
socio-material realm; my interlocutors instead discussed its potential for
amal, application.
And so, the question arises: How does one utilize a type of knowledge
that contests the finality of thought in the context of the everyday?
Understanding Unknowing
What is unknowing (ma‘rifat)? It is a concept that is first and foremost

based on the affirmation of the unknowability of God, that it is ultimately
impossible for humans to fully understand the divine. And yet rather than
consider this fact an obstacle to contemplating the nature of the divine
and other related matters, these Sufis firmly position themselves at this
juncture in developing their epistemologies. They operate from a posi-
tion of accepting and emphasizing that there will always be that which we
do not know. Thus, we might posit non-knowledge not as a form of anti-
knowledge or metaknowledge but rather as an awareness of that which we
do not know, an engaged awareness that we know nothing.
While I think it is fair to assert that the vast majority of Muslims would
agree that God is inherently unknowable, t hese Sufi groups take this con-
ceit as the foundation of their broader epistemology. For the contemporary
sheikh Seyed Mustafa Azmayesh, the interminable nature of the journey
of Sufism is perhaps its most defining feature: “The road to God is endless
because God is infinite. Constantly we have to go on and accept to go on.
When you stop you are no longer a Sufi.”1 My friend Elaheh’s interpretation
of the Rumi poem expressed a similar faith in the endlessness of meaning,
where a reminder of the limits of the human intellect, being made cogni-
zant of this often forgotten fact, was a source not of melancholy but of joy.
Within non-knowledge there remains some elemental form of under-
standing, a self-conscious awareness, but it is an awareness that some-
thing remains unresolved, something remains unanswered. Hajj Nur‘Ali
Tabandeh, the highest spiritual authority figure (qotb) of the Nimatul-
lahi Soltanalishahi Sufi Order, who passed away in December 2019, offers
the f ollowing definition of ma‘rifat emphasizing the lack of finality that it
4 Introduction
invokes: “Literally, erfan is knowing. Yet knowing has different stages . . .
gnosis is not an absolute m atter. It is something that, as the philosophers
say, is graduated [tashkiki] such as light and faith, which have degrees. . . .
More than anything e lse . . . this process continues endlessly.”2 Here then
we see one of the first aspects of unknowing: that it contests the finality of
thought, suggesting an intimation of knowing as a process without end-
point, and that t here w ill always exist that which we do not know. Far from
advocating the removal of knowledge, this form of thinking, where thought
is compelled to its limit, rather emancipates thinking as an automatic, sys-
tematic means to an end, and allows it to operate as a constantly searching,
ceaselessly critical investigative device. What surfaces then is a new mode
of thinking, one that, through its need to question, is able to conceive of a
wholly different conception of reality. Above all e lse, unknowing must be
understood as a fundamentally generative enterprise, one wherein the final-
ity of conventional knowledge is supplanted by an unresolvable dilemma
until ultimately all thought operates as a formless, generative endeavor,
speculating upon that which it does not know, moving forward into the
“nothing,” until all life is lived at the level of an improvisatory gesture.
Unknowing is exactly that: it causes one to unknow something; it takes
a seemingly concrete and finite entity and unravels it, blurs its ends and
beginnings, renders the once familiar into the unfamiliar, and, in some
cases, puts its very existence into question. As the eleventh-century writer
Ahmad Ghazzali explained in his famous treatise Sawaneh: “This station is
beyond the limit of knowledge (aql) and the allusive expression of knowl-
edge cannot reach it, any more than its outward expression (ebarat). How-
ever, the allusion of mystical epistemologies (ma‘rifat) will indicate it, for
unlike knowledge, the boundaries of which are all well-constructed, the
boundaries of mystical epistemology lead to ruin. Here is the dashing of
waves of the ocean of love, breaking on themselves and returning to them-
selves.”3 This ruination of boundaries, of that which is contained, is seen
throughout this book.
At the heart of the project are four ethnographic case studies. In each
instance, I trace the affective and sensory dimensions of ma‘rifat as it influ-
ences the mystics’ understanding of text and authority, the self, memory,
and place. I speak with two sheikhs whose belief in the endlessness of
meanings found in works of poetry, the ultimate unknowability of text,
leads them to confirm the limits of their own authority, as interpreters
and subsequently as spiritual leaders. Listening practices within the mu-
sical zekr ritual demonstrate a reconfiguration of the self as an unbound
Introduction 5
e ntity, a move toward a destabilization of subjectivity, a “loss of self ” in a
postcolonial context where a “return to the self ” has long been championed
by Iranian thinkers like Ali Shariati and Jalal Al-e Ahmad. A small collec-
tive of mystics actively attempt to overturn a memory of a difficult event,
summoning a “willful amnesia” that both dovetails with and diverges from
other forms of remembrance (zekr) in postwar Iran. Finally, a residential
neighborhood is rendered unfamiliar as a group of young people reimag-
ine the space through movement, reviving a literal interpretation of the
idea of sargardan, intentional wandering.
I hence approach unknowing in two ways: as object of study but also
as critical lens, utilizing the Sufis’ own mystical epistemology to guide me
in understanding and interpreting my ethnographic case studies. In this
way, the project of this book is to demonstrate the ways in which mystical
thought is rendered manifest in Iran today, and how unknowing unravels
the borders of the material. In doing so, the Sufis reaffirm not only the
supremacy of God’s omniscience but also their belief in the illusory na-
ture of reality. I should reiterate that ma‘rifat is a hugely complex category
with thousands of definitions of what it might entail. In this text, however,
unless otherw ise noted, when I refer to ma‘rifat I refer to the specific in-
terpretation of ma‘rifat of my interlocutors, and I have translated it here as
“unknowing” to better reflect their particular hermeneutic stance.4
Guiding me in my analysis are the following questions: What are
the possibilities and limitations—intellectually, ethically, politically—
contained in the application of ma‘rifat? In what ways is this interpreta-
tion and utilization influenced by the larger sociopolitical context of post-
revolutionary Iran and how, in turn, does it influence this same arena?
More broadly, what is the role of Sufism in late modernity, and how might
such a question be answered anthropologically?
In some sense, this book is more an ethnography of an idea or, perhaps
more accurately, an ethnography of an interpretation of a theological con-
cept, than an exhaustive study of what might be called “Iranian Sufism” in
and of itself.5 Such a framing is not intended to downplay the role of my
interlocutors—as if I am emphasizing abstract knowledge at the cost of
those who generate it—but rather to allow my primary subject m atter to
be their interpretations and applications of said knowledge. An ethnog-
raphy of an interpretation traces how theories of ma‘rifat are understood
and interpreted, applied and utilized, influence and subsequently are influ-
enced by the larger sociopolitical context in which they operate, arise out
6 Introduction
of particular historical contingencies—in other words, carries out all the
things an ethnography must do.
In doing so, I find myself in conversation with other recent anthropolo-
gies of Islam focused upon the ineffable and the unseen, where communi-
ties or individuals are concerned with planes of existence that are difficult
if not impossible to access (at least for the anthropologist). Amira Mit-
termaier’s artful and far-reaching study of dreams and dreaming in Egypt
has proved an incomparable guide as she investigates a realm—the world
of dreams—that is at once “radically inassimilable” to her interlocutors
while demonstrating how this space of alterity acts as a site of engagement
for them, leading to profound reconfigurations of what might be classi-
fied as real and unreal, self and nonself, and more. Other examples of
anthropologies of the invisible include Anand Taneja’s elegiac exploration
of the interactions between jinns—spirits made of smokeless fires—and
the Hindu and Muslim visitors of the medieval Firoz-Shah Kotla shrine in
contemporary Delhi who consult them, demonstrating how supernatural
entities keep alive histories otherw ise effaced by the Indian government.
Alireza Doostdar offers no less than an historically informed anthropol-
ogy of al-ghayb, that dominion of the concealed and unseen, as a window
into contemporary debates concerning rationality and scientific thought
in Iran. And finally, Stefania Pandolfo’s magisterial Knot of the Soul bears
witness to the tribulations of the souls of individuals living “in the prox-
imity of madness,”6 wherein she explores that which, oftentimes explicitly
by definition, eludes human understanding. How are we to approach such
topics, as anthropologists and ethnographers but also as writers? How can
such experiences be rendered legible to ourselves and to o thers? When
the subject matter is the formulation and interactions of multiple realities
(and perhaps nonrealities), the researcher must look for evidence, beyond
that which is immediately available. As Pandolfo writes in the overture to
part 3 of Knot of the Soul, “The Jurisprudence of the Soul”: “I was clear that
I could not write based on his [the Imam’s] practice, or even his teach-
ings and explications alone. In the watermark of his words, t here was an
archive that I had the responsibility of addressing, on its own terms, and
in terms of the questions and concepts that had guided my own search.”7
Here, Pandolfo points out that in the Imam’s words there is an entire cor-
pus of knowledge that must be addressed, viewed on its own terms but
also through the lens of her own reading. A watermark can be seen, but it
remains ever vague.
Introduction 7
The dream-world, the spirit-world, the world of the unconscious: these
are all realms the majority of individuals can never fully inhabit but are able
to encounter or at least engage with through a variety of methods and an
equally diverse set of consequences. Moreover, what I find compelling in
these texts is that each phenomenon—dreams, jinns, souls, knowledge—
acts as an object of ethnographic inquiry in its own right, rather than solely
as an avenue or entryway to understanding some other determining force:
electoral politics, economics, infrastructure. This is not to say that t hese
more ephemeral phenomena are apolitical in any sense, or are divorced
from or unaffected by the contexts in which they operate, far from it; I
simply suggest that the political or some other larger determining force
does not exhaust them as subjects of ethnographic inquiry or, to put it dif-
ferently, the political does not wholly shape or determine their significance.
Indeed, my objective h ere is to trace the ways that t hese Sufis in Iran en-
gage with difficult-to-access mystical epistemologies, ones that often may
be retrieved only through much effort and dedication. In other words,
I examine the ways in which that which is intangible—namely, abstract
thought in the form of philosophical ideas—is rendered material in such a
way as to leave its mark upon the social realm, and it is this act of rendering
in which I am most interested. My intention is not to explicate the ways in
which t hese case studies provide merely an example or an uncritical and
unthinking implementation of a predetermined conceit, but to examine
how t hese epistemological matrices are first interpreted and then applied
to the specific context at hand. What this requires is an activation of the
religious imaginary, one to generate an envisioning of a world that is in
conversation with, yet not entirely restricted to, the larger sociopolitical
context in which those who imagine belong.
The Sufi Ties That Bind
I began my work with Sufis in 2007, with a longer period of research in late
2009 through 2011. The Green Movement, the series of large-scale protests
prompted by the 2009 presidential election, w ere largely in the rearview
mirror at this point, and though they continued to act as a point of conver-
sation, as all current events do, they otherwise did not affect my research.
It was not my first extended trip to Iran, e ither, as I had spent summers
at my grandmother’s h ouse in Isfahan, experiencing the country as many
children of the diaspora do, through the joy of large f amily gatherings, ice
8 Introduction
cream cones and picnics in the park, being a little scared and secretly de-
lighted when the power went out, and enjoying the company of hordes of
cousins, bringing with us many pairs of jeans as gifts, the trendy ones still
in short supply in the waning days of the Iran-Iraq War and the years after.
In other words, the holiday version of Iran. It was only when I was in my
early twenties that I started to venture outside my large circle of relations.
No one in my extended family is part of any Sufi order, but it was through
networks of friends and family that I met some of my initial interlocutors;
in other cases, I approached Sufi groups myself, without any intermediary.
All my interlocutors were incredibly gracious with their time, but it is a
testament to these latter groups’ generosity of spirit that they were so open
and welcoming to a complete stranger.
At this point, I must introduce my interlocutors with more specificity.
This study is not focused upon a single Sufi order,8 nor does it purport
to be an exhaustive overview of what might be called “organized Sufism”
within Iran. My interlocutors include members of groups of varying sizes
and organizational structures, all of whom have their own different spiri-
tual leaders. Because I worked with mystics in the cities of Isfahan, Ker-
man, and Tehran, a regional specificity is lacking as well. In all but one
of my case studies, I make no mention of which city my interlocutors are
located in or when exactly the interviews took place. This is an intentional
blurring, done to provide more cover for my interlocutors.
There are, however, certain characteristics shared by all my interlocu-
tors. They are all ethnically Persian, and hence part of the majority ethnic
group of Iran.9 Unlike other Sufi groups in Iran, such as the Sunni Kurdish
Qaderis, my interlocutors are indistinguishable from the rest of the ethnic
Persian population in terms of their phenotypical appearance, their names,
and the language they speak. They also all identify, resolutely and without
fail, as followers of Twelver Shi‘ism, the state religion of Iran. They are Shi‘i
Sufis, meaning they follow all the tenets of Twelver Shi‘ism,10 but either
have a particular hermeneutic stance t oward said tenets and/or believe in
certain conceptual matrices that may be seen as outside “mainstream” Shi‘i
thought (although of course the Sufis themselves always argue that any and
all of their beliefs are perfectly within the guidelines of Twelver Shi‘ism). I
will think through these differences in more detail in chapter 1.
More compelling than this set of ethnic, linguistic, and “sect” charac-
teristics shared between my interlocutors, however, are t hose of the con-
ceptual variety. As such, all my interlocutors share the following traits:
(1) all identify the fourteenth-century sheikh Shah Nimatullah Vali as a
Introduction 9
key intellectual grandfather; (2) they read and discuss a similar corpus of
texts, and, most significantly; (3) they express similar interpretations of key
mystical concepts despite belonging to different orders. The ties that bind
these groups are thus more literary and conceptual than organizational or
immediately empirical. In privileging the conceptual over the structural,
I aim to foreground the groups’ intellectual output, as well as the source
material that helps formulate their ideas and interpretations, in my study.
In other words, texts and interpretative stance are the criteria by which I
have organized t hese mystical o rders into a somewhat cohesive collection
of case studies. Unknowing thus emerges as a trans-order phenomenon; it
does not belong to a single group or specific sheikh; it is not relegated to
mystics of any particular class background or training. Of course, this is not
to say that many self-identified Sufis, in Iran and elsewhere, would surely
disagree with this interpretation of ma‘rifat; it is not a universal interpre-
tation. Indeed, a more comprehensive study would provide examples of
other Sufis’ alternative understandings of the concepts explored in this
study, and that is something that is surely lacking. Still, that this interpre-
tive stance operates across these disparate groups indicates that a herme-
neutic trend is currently operating today. The case studies of this book are
thus a fragmentary portrait of contemporary Sufi practice in Iran, a series
of isolated snapshots that give clues to a larger, unseen whole.
As previously mentioned, all my interlocutors consider themselves
followers of Shah Nimatullah Vali (d. 1431), and either use the moniker
“Nimatullahi” or trace their spiritual lineage (selsele) back to him. To be
clear, this does not mean they are part of the same order nor does it mean
they share an identical spiritual lineage. But the shared claiming of Shah
Nimatullah Vali is significant for two reasons: (1) it indicates the poten-
tial for some shared epistemologies; and (2) it ties them more directly to
the organized mysticism of a Sufi order (tariqeh),11 meaning a collective of
students and teachers following a more codified school of mystical think-
ing that has typically been in place for some generations prior, as opposed
to other forms of “mystical practice.” Iterations of the Nimatullahi Order
have existed within Iran or South Asia since the fifteenth century, and by
identifying as such my interlocutors lay claim to and view themselves as
part of a broader tradition of organized Sufism.12 This is in contrast to
many individuals in contemporary Iran who feel a predilection for mysti-
cism but who may or may not identify as Sufi (darvish), a phenomenon
I explain in greater detail in chapter 1. Indeed, “mysticism” in Iran is a
shape-shifter, existing in a number of disparate but interconnected cat-
10 Introduction
egories: religio-philosophical mysticism taught in the seminaries (erfan
and tasavvuf), literary and musical mysticism (erfan), New Age health and
psychology, as well as the organized group practices (sufigari) that are the
focus of this study. This self-identifying as Nimatullahi, however, distin-
guishes my interlocutors from other individuals in Iran who are invested in
mysticism (usually tasavvuf or erfan), including t hose following mystically
inflected self-help programs and writings, a trend thoughtfully investigated
by Alireza Doostdar through both anthropological and historical lenses,13
as well as those authors who write about what Niloofar Haeri has termed
“simple erfan” or “simple mysticism” (erfan-e sadeh).14 Haeri has outlined
this phenomenon of lay authors, meaning they are neither clerics nor pro-
fessors, who write prayer books in Persian on the subject of mysticism in
plain prose, making them accessible to a much broader readership than the
more dense, philosophically oriented prose that often characterize writ-
ings on mysticism. In self-identifying as darvish or faqir specifically and
in laying claim to having ties to Shah Nimatullah Vali—either nominally
or genealogically—these Sufis are putting themselves firmly in a different
category than the two other groups. Th ere is a specific genealogy being
invoked here, and all the accompanying identifying factors as well: literary,
philosophical, and hierarchical.
The second trait shared by all the Sufis in my case studies is their similar
interpretations of key mystical concepts, despite the fact that they follow
different sheikhs. Of particular importance is their adherence to the idea
that Sufi knowledge (ma‘rifat), or unknowing as I am calling it, remains an
open-ended phenomenon, where the mystery of God is seen not as limita-
tion but as opportunity. Such an idea, although certainly not exclusive to
these Iranian Sufis, is not universally accepted within all forms of Islamic
mysticism, with luminaries such as Abu-Hamid al-Ghazzali and Mulla
Sadra proving key objectors.
The third point of convergence between my interlocutors is the use
of similar textual materials. As is the case with many Islamic groups, the
majority of the Sufis’ time together is spent reading, discussing, and/or
analyzing different texts, and so an overlap in reading material is not an in-
significant fact. The interpretation of this constellation of textual material
forms the bedrock of their practices, and as one navigates with heavenly
bodies so too do t hese written works provide the guidance the Sufis may
use to move through life.
The use of shared textual materials also demonstrates a shared affinity
for particular intellectual debates and discourses. This is not to say that
Introduction 11
their “reading lists” w ere entirely identical; t here w
ere certainly diver-
gences—in terms of genre, in terms of favored writers—but there was
enough overlap of texts that I was able to make note of it.
There is also a cross-pollination of literatures between the groups,
meaning many of the mystics read and discussed texts by twentieth-and
twenty-f irst-century Sufi sheikhs other than their own. For example, I
found the works of Javad Nurbakhsh, the psychologist who founded his
own order in the 1970s and left Iran during the early days of the revolution,
were still in relatively heavy circulation and in every group t here were at
least a few who w ere familiar with his work.15 Such a finding speaks against
narrow definitions of “saint worship” and the supposedly single-minded
devotion students give to their leader, where the disciples accept the word
of their spiritual authority figure as the beginning and end of debate.
Other literatures read by sheikhs or members of the groups with whom
I worked include the writings of members of the Safi Ali Shahi Order and
the Soltan Ali Shahi Order. All read the poetry of Shah Nimatullah Vali,
the aforementioned intellectual grandfather. While his writings are not
widely read amongst the broader population, the fifteenth-century sheikh’s
poetry is not obscure by any means—volumes of his collected works can
be found in mainstream Iranian bookstores like City of Books (Shahr-e
Ketab). The works of the sixth Shi‘i imam, Imam Jafar al-Sadeq, and key
Shi‘i clerics such as Ayatollah Khomeini, Allameh Sayyed Mohammad
Tabatabai, and Seyed Mohammad Husayn Husayni Tihrani were also of
interest to some—if not all—members of each of the groups with which I
worked. Of course, the works of many medieval Persian poets are heavily
read and discussed by the Sufis as well. The analysis of poetry, medieval or
otherwise, is extraordinarily common in Iran, regardless of one’s religiosity
or educational background, from those who may identify as atheist to the
most devout practitioners of “mainstream” Twelver Shi‘ism (whatever that
may be). Haeri, Shams, Olszewska, Manoukian, and Fischer have all traced
the ways in which poetry and specific forms of knowledge derived from
poetry (sometimes called poetics or poesis) occupy places in the Iranian
imagery both expected and unexpected,16 appearing in everything from
television game shows and art h ouse cinema to prayer circles and refugee
cultural organizations, university and seminary settings, and debates at bus
stops. The infiltration of poetry and poetics into contemporary Iranian life
cannot be underestimated, and this book contributes to this ever-growing
and thoughtful genre with a focus on the role of poetry for a particular
group of readers, here Sufis.
12 Introduction
The Sufis refer to themselves by a variety of names: gnostics (arif/urafa),
paupers (faqir/fuqara), wayfarers or wanderers (salik/salik-ha), darvish
(also pauper or, alternatively, one who travels “door to door”), Sufis, and,
to a much lesser extent, students (murid). The different collectives with
which I worked often referred to themselves most frequently with one spe-
cific moniker, such that some preferred faqir while o thers used darvish.
Generally, however, the name faqir, or pauper, indicating that one exists in
a state of “spiritual poverty,” was used the most frequently. Outside of Sufi
circles, Iranians almost exclusively used the term darvish or Sufi.
Finally, and most significantly for this study, I counter assertions of
Sufi “exceptionalism,” which argues that mystics are not in conversation
with other Islamic debates and discourses, a claim which could not be
further from the truth. In this book, I explore how Iranian Shi‘i mysti-
cal epistemologies have similarities and differences with the conceptual
matrices of their non-Sufi, Twelver Shi‘i counterparts. Indeed, it is vital
to remember that within Qom, the home of mainstream and state-r un
Shi‘ite seminaries (howzeh),17 students have been able to study mysticism
(tasavvuf) with teachers—both inside and outside the classroom—since
the city’s reemergence as a site of Shi‘i scholarship in the early 1920s.18
More recently, there have been a number of more prominent clerics
within the seminaries of Mashhad that espouse a more esoterically ori-
ented view, which I discuss briefly in chapter 1. While it would require
another book entirely to more exhaustively trace convergences and diver-
gences between philosophies of Sufi orders and the staggering output of
ideas from the seminaries, I do hope my modest contribution to such an
endeavor here highlights the fact that mystical thought does not operate
in a vacuum.
Transfigurations of the Self
The enemy of Sufism (faqr) is the devil of the self, which appears in various
forms. Do not be taken in by the deceptions of the self, for it is possible
that it may take on the appearance of being pleasing to God.
hazrat mahbub alishah (d. 1997)
Remember God so much that you are forgotten. Let the caller and the
called disappear; be lost in the call.
rumi
Introduction 13
The self as an e nemy to be avoided, the self as a t hing to be dissolved, the
self as a false mirror of understanding: t hese are typical injunctions for
those who subscribe to the mystical path. As previously mentioned, the
primary objective of Sufism is u nion with God (tawhid) through the ac-
quisition of non-knowledge. As such, something which is both a cause and
a consequence of this increased proximity to God is the transformation of
the self. This altering of subjectivity, which can range from a quieting of
self-involved patterns of thought (self-pity, envy, e tc.) to an extinguishing
of subjectivity (fana) entirely, is something for the faithful to work toward
and achieve. This of course necessitates the questions of exactly how one
goes about dissolving their own subjectivity (fana), their own sense of self,
and how exactly one manages to usher in a form of consciousness where
the self has been dislodged as the origin point and source of all things.
The answer is twofold, and involves an understanding of multiple
forms of subjectivity. The first mode of subjectivity is similar to that which
is found in studies of what has been called ethical self-fashioning, a phe-
nomenon masterfully explored in works by Charles Hirschkind, Saba
Mahmood, Lara Deeb, and others. This aspect of one’s self is dedicated
to proper ethical comportment (akhlaq, the shari’at) and involves read-
ing and analyzing textual materials. It is a type of selfhood r ecognizable
by many as the liberal autonomous subject, contained and centered, with
the self as the sun in the Copernican model of consciousness. Moreover,
the trope of “cultivation” is also appropriate here, as many Sufis work tire-
lessly to try to educate themselves about mystical epistemologies, attend-
ing classes or sessions and reading through materials, working to increase
their knowledge and achieve the realization of their full scholarly poten-
tial. There is an active engagement here, a dedication of time and energy to
create an ethical and knowledgeable self whose boundaries are discernible
and whole.
And then t here is another form of subjectivity, one a bit more porous
and opaque, that is dedicated to its own dissolution. This element of the
self is seen as contingent upon but also resolutely distinct from the type
just described. While proper ethical comportment and obtaining schol-
arly knowledge—the domain of the worldly self—are understood to be
important, they are considered to be only the (necessary) first step in
achieving tawhid. To continue forward on the path t oward tawhid requires
the c apturing of a form of subjectivity that cannot be developed solely
through careful study and good deeds—a fact relayed to me time and time
again by many of my interlocutors—but by making oneself vulnerable, by
14 Introduction
allowing oneself to be exposed to a certain existential and ontological reg-
ister; it is as if one has undergone a long and potentially difficult journey
and then arrived at a destination where such journeying, such efforts are
no longer effective. Peppered throughout the mystical literatures is the lan-
guage of surrender and submission; rather than develop the self, one must
abandon it, and what of course makes this all the more difficult is that even
this cannot be an act of pure volition. But it is only with this form of radi-
cal subjectivity/nonsubjectivity that one is able to experience and obtain
unknowing (ma‘rifat).
According to the Sufis, there is a clear hierarchy between these different
forms of self and the corresponding forms of knowledge and knowledge
production with which they are engaged. As Sheikh Alizadeh, one of my
key interlocutors, told me, “If you just want to learn how to be an ethical
person, a person of substance (adam-e dorost va hesabi), to pray correctly,
maybe learn more about the Qur’an, t here are a hundred thousand religious
teachers who can do that. If you want to learn of the loss of self (bikhudi)
and nonexistence (naboodi), then you turn to the mystics (fuqaha)!” For
Sheikh Alizadeh, activities like studying the Qur’an and a spirations of liv-
ing an ethical life are presented as almost unremarkable undertakings, “just
learn[ing] how to be an ethical person,” (emphasis mine), in contrast to
learning about nonexistence, which seems to be the domain, or at least
the specialty, of those who have embarked on the mystical path (tariqeh).
Many other individuals with whom I spoke, including Sheikh Noroozi,
described fana, the annihilation of the self, as the “next stage” or the “next
step” in the process toward tawhid, following the cultivation of an ethical
self. Among the Soltanalishahi Order, the qotb Hazrat Hajj Nur‘Ali Taban-
deh Majzub‘alishah described in an introductory text: “In Islam, Sufism
or gnosis (erfan) is the inward dimension of the religion, like the seed of a
nut whose shell is the outward rules (shari’at) and whose seed is the path
(tariqeh),”19 at once privileging the tariqeh as the “seed” and depicting the
shari’at as the protective outer shell guarding the treasure inside. In t hese
cases, all embrace the importance of ethics and the self-contained and self-
directed subjectivity that it requires, but all also emphasize the equal and
often greater significance of the unbounded and unknown self that the
tariqeh, the mystical path, entails.
A number of recent works that have explored the phenomenon of
nonautonomous selves in other Islamic settings have been extremely in-
structive for my own project. In her study of the social life of dreams in
contemporary Egypt, Amira Mittermaier considers subjectivity in light of
Introduction 15
the fact that dreams are said to “come” to her interlocutors rather origi-
nate within them, therein tracing the ways that the self is understood to
be formulated by external forces as well as internal forces. This is a com-
munity of individuals who value being “acted upon”—primarily by t hose
spirits and saints who visit them in their dreams—where the self emerges
as a site for interaction between the Real and Unreal worlds rather than a
wholly self-contained entity. Borrowing from Godfrey Lienhardt’s classic
study, Mittermaier describes the phenomenon of “being acted upon” as
an “ethics of passion”: “The ethics of passions that emerges from my inter-
locutors’ dream stories not only undoes the notion of a unified subject but
also draws attention to the role of an Elsewhere in constituting the subject,
and with it to elements of unpredictability and contingency.” 20 In other
words, the vicissitudes of the self are contingent upon not only internal
processing but external processing as well.
The destabilization of subjectivity is also a major theme in Stefania
Pandolfo’s ethnography of madness, in which her interlocutors are suffer-
ing from “maladies of the soul” alternately caused by jinn possession, the
trauma of war, and emotional abuse.21 Those who experience this form
of dislocation of the self, however, are in stark contrast to the Sufis with
whom I worked in that the former experience great pain and suffering,
and are actively looking to reestablish an equilibrium within themselves,
whereas the latter are striving to activate this potentially unsettling expe-
rience. Pandolfo’s interlocutors understand the cause of their maladies
as arising from something external to themselves; whether they be from
malevolent spirits or from the devastation of violence, these undoings are
caused by that which is exterior to body and consciousness. In this sense, it
seems as though the soul (nafs) is being undermined, which is quite dif
ferent from the actions undertaken by the mystics with whom I worked,
where the dissolution of the self is something that is, at least in part,
self-driven.
Outside of the Islamic context (but within the Iranian context), Setrag
Manoukian offers the idea of “the impersonal,” considering what it might
mean to conduct ethnography where selves are not bounded entities,
where the self does not exist at all, but where the self once was there exist
moments (and perhaps records) of exchange. Manoukian develops this
critical lens in response to his interlocutors in Shiraz, Iran, who understand
poetry as a way of existence, and Manoukian takes this assertion seriously,
viewing it as an epistemic challenge, rather than simply as metaphor or
empty language. He writes:
16 Introduction
In Iran, poetic traditions are relevant in constructing an existential ground
for recognition. Beyond political and religious differences, Iranians habitu-
ally recur to poetry when existential m atters are at play . . . it is the imper-
sonal force of poetry that structures a mode of existence in which form
and life become inseparable. Shiraz poet Mansur Awji . . . explained to
me that while a poet needs an equal measure of effort and inspiration to
compose verses, one cannot control the combination of circumstances in
which poetry comes, if it comes at all. Th
ese poetic occurrences are neither
active movements from the inside t owards the outside, a sovereign self-
expression, nor passive recipients of messages from the outside to the self.22
ere, the composition of the poetry is not wholly the result of e ither
H
interior or external forces, but it arises instead from something in between.
Similarly, as the mystics of this study work to dislodge their subjectivity,
the “who” t hat is doing the “work” becomes ever more unclear, a form of
engagement with the world neither entirely fully active or fully passive.
In this book I frequently refer to “transformation,” and by this I mean
a transfiguration of the self that occurs simultaneously at the divine and
existential registers. The transformation of the self at the levels of the Real
(haqiqat) is seen as a fundamentally distinct as well as more significant
cultivation of the self than that which occurs at the level of ethics. In-
deed, if one is to take seriously the idea that the acquisition of ma‘rifat and
achievement of tawhid require no less than the dissolution of subjectivity,
then we must entertain forms of thinking and thought that operate with-
out subjectivity, a form of thought that seems impossible by standards of
Western consciousness. By considering unknowing, this book expands on
those forms of Islamic selfhood/non-selfhood that do not fit so easily into
self-cultivation, and at the same time challenge, perhaps in a more radical
fashion, the notion of the liberal autonomous subject.
The Real and the Unreal
Sheikh Noroozi led a modestly sized group of followers and they would
meet to discuss, among many other t hings, theories of the nature of reality
(haqiqat). Effervescent and irascible, he would illustrate the ways that inti-
mate experiences with and of God can occur in more quotidian moments.
“If you listen closely, sometimes even in the din of the streets (sar-a
seda-ye khiyaban), you can hear the sound of ‘Hu.’23 But then in that same
Introduction 17
moment it w ill disappear. You w
ill ask yourself: Did you r eally hear it?
Maybe you did and maybe you did not. Was it really there? Were you r eally
there? Was it just the wind, playing tricks? Was it the sound of your own
heartbeat, echoing through your ears? While you are waiting to cross the
street, can you hear the Hu? Even if you are not 100 percent sure, even if all
you have understood really is a strange question, for a moment, you w ill
not be in this world.”
Later I discussed Sheikh Noroozi’s lecture with Shohreh, a homemaker
and mother in her forties who regularly attended his gatherings. “I like the
reminder of thinking about u nion with God (tawhid), that it can happen
in this world too, just from a strange noise on a street corner. I mean, of
course not fully, but we can have moments, we can get a little closer. It’s
so beneficial to remember the world of Truth (haqiqat; the divine realm),
just thinking this other world is there and is possible. Here, in the Unreal
(alam-e khiyali), it changes the time you spend on the l ittle street corner,
makes it a new experience.”
At the core of Nimatullahi Sufism t here lies a central idea: that existence is
composed of two separate but interrelated realms: the Real (haqiqat) and
the Unreal (khiyali, vehmi).24 In contrast to many post-Enlightenment dis-
courses, the Real is the world of the divine, of the unseen and the imper-
ceptible, while everything else in the universe—humanity, plants, animals,
mountains, deserts—are inhabitants of the Unreal. It is also essential to
understand that the Real and the Unreal exist simultaneously. A common
idea within Sufi literatures is that the Real is available to us but is merely
veiled, and therein concealed, from the Unreal. It is the goal of Sufism to
remove this veil and become ever closer to the Real, the world of God,
therein achieving tawhid, union with God.
As Sheikh Noroozi explains it, the reception of a passing sound, one
which you are not entirely sure you have heard at all, is enough to transport
you to another world. This other world is the world of the Real (haqiqat),
the world of the divine. You must listen for this sound, or “listen closely” as
Sheikh Noroozi advises, and even then you will not be sure you have heard
it at all. It w ill cause you to question yourself and your surroundings, in-
spiring a small vertigo, so that your heartbeat, the wind, and the disparate
sounds of the street might take the shape of one another.
Reports of feeling unmoored and unsettled when one is becoming
closer to the Real are extremely common throughout Sufi literatures; leav-
ing behind the illusory plane of the profane world, this Unreal, is not with-
18 Introduction
out side effects, it would seem. And yet despite any discomfort that might
accompany this questioning of the self that occurs in approaching the Real,
it is seen by Shohreh as something to be desired. Indeed, Shohreh does not
focus on the lack of clarity that Sheikh Noroozi describes, but notes instead
her appreciation of the reminder that opportunities for u nion with God
(tawhid) might occur even in the most quotidian moments, in this case in-
stigated by an unidentified noise on the street. This moment is then able to
transform the experience of the street corner, suggesting that even the mere
remembrance of the Real can impact the experience of the Unreal.
This interplay between the Real and the Unreal, especially as it relates to
materiality, is an important theme in three out of four of my case studies.
To recap, the world in which humanity resides is fundamentally Unreal,
meaning illusory and fictive, and to affirm such a belief in the unreality
of the world is a simultaneous confirmation of the reality of God and the
inherent supremacy of the divine realm. Moreover, an acceptance of the
illusory nature of reality allows for a certain kind of imaginative capability,
one that sometimes involves the questioning of the ontological and/or ex-
istential status of people, places, things, and even the self. Of course, t hese
imaginings do not occur in a vacuum, but are influenced by the specific
contexts in which the imaginer operates, w hether that influence is per-
sonal, sociopolitical, or something else. It is important to remember that
this is an active process, as one must always remember to listen closely.
Textual Ethnography and the Hermeneutic Imagination
Much of my time in “the field” was spent with an open book in my lap, sit-
ting around with other tome-laden individuals, shifting our gazes up and
down from the pages in front of us to one another. Sometimes there was a
leader to these discussions, and sometimes there was none. Sometimes the
mood of these reading groups was relaxed and contemplative, full of slow
movements and the gentle turning of pages, and other times they could
be charged and electric, slightly raised voices puncturing the air, potential
energy radiating from those waiting their turn to speak. In most of these
meetings the topic at hand was poetry. All the groups were thoughtful, and
a privilege to attend.
While I was very interested in the discussions that occurred in t hese
reading groups, I also wished to understand how the ideas and themes
debated also influenced my interlocutors’ lives outside of the reading
Introduction 19
groups, just as many ethnographies of religion have previously done. In this
book, I strive to understand the disparate forms of social phenomena—
both knowledge and practices—that arise from texts and textual practices
specifically, where the written word is seen as both the result of and source
of cultural formations. In other words, to consider what it means to ap-
proach textual materials—here religio-philosophical texts—as a form of
anthropological evidence.
In addition to t hose classic texts, which understood literacy as a form of
technology and power,25 many have analyzed reading as a critical act which
itself is “culturally and historically determined,” as Jonathan Boyarin has
articulated, tracing the intersections between knowledge production and
the literary and hermeneutic imagination.26 Influential works like those of
Fischer and Abedi and Brinkley Messick demonstrated how intellectual de-
bates, often centered around questions and interpretations of specific textual
materials, might be rendered legible by historically informed anthropologi-
cal research, combining ethnography with analyses of religious texts.27
Since then, many o thers have followed suit, especially in considering
how reading determines subject formation.28 In recent years, the read-
ing and nonreading of documents, especially of the bureaucratic variety,
has also drawn substantial attention,29 and of course t here is much “non-
knowing” that occurs in bureaucracy, and t hose who privilege reading
practice over content.30
This book draws most heavily from those studies that trace the intersec-
tions between cultural production and the literary and hermeneutic imagi-
nation. Of particular importance is the role of poetry, especially medieval
Persian poetry, which my interlocuters read alongside the Qur’an, the Ha-
dith, and other texts of religious authority. Setrag Manoukian explores how
Iranians are able to view themselves as subjects and subjects-in-history
through engagement with and composition of poetry. Far from constitut-
ing a genre that is divorced from the sociocultural realm, Manoukian dem-
onstrates how “poetry is the form in which Iranians experience themselves
as subjects endowed with the power to act and live in the world.”31 While I
found my interlocutors to take a similar stance t oward poetry, my work is
less concerned with the historical and genealogical contingencies of the re-
lationship between self and poetry within Iran as Manoukian’s work dem-
onstrates, and more focused upon poetry as an affirmation and purveyor of
a particular type of knowledge for these Iranian Sufis. I will explain.
There are certain characteristics that define the poetry my interlocu-
tors read: ambiguity of meaning, multiplicity of meaning, words that
20 Introduction
may or may not adhere to their literal definitions, a sensitivity to rhythm,
rhyme, and speed. This does not even include the further nuances that
these poems can take on when they are performed orally, each reader add-
ing their unique interpretation in the way they utter aloud the poem. Of
course, it is not only poetry that utilizes these tropes—one only has to
read the prose works of more esoterically minded theologians to encoun-
ter similarly abstruse epistemologies—but these literary traits are most
consistently found in poetic genres. It is the genre of writing that is perhaps
the most uncompromising in its multiplicities of meanings and, as a result,
most conducive to Sufi epistemologies of unknowing.
Moreover, within this multiplicity of meanings t here is a more specific
hermeneutic stance that many Islamic mystics adopt. Poetry, like esoteric
interpretations of the Qur’an, is seen as containing esoteric meanings and
exoteric meanings; in other words, poems contain meanings both hidden
and transparent.32
What is vital to understand is that this interpretative lens, of hidden
meanings and transparent meanings, is directly tied to the idea of the
world as being composed of two separate but intertwined realms: the Real
and the Unreal. In other words, poetry is reflective and emblematic of the
nature of reality as a whole. The Real, the world of the divine, is analogous
to the hidden meaning of the poem, so much so that the Real is often re-
ferred to as the hidden (al-ghayb). Just as one must strive to gain access to
the Real—the realm of the divine—so too must the reader work t oward
accessing the hidden meaning of the text. Similarly, the transparent mean-
ings of the text are as readily available as the Unreal—the profane—world
around us; still providing valuable insights, but not quite as transformative
as those insights found in hidden meanings.
In this way, each poem is a microcosm of the world. Simultaneously
self-contained and infinite, possessing an endless array of meanings, some
surface level and easily accessible, o thers requiring more dexterity of
thought. The Sufis’ interpretation of poetry is directly influenced by the
way they interpret the world, such that their hermeneutics and ontological
critical lenses are one and the same. As such, what I wish to demonstrate
in Unknowing and the Everyday is that this particular critical lens of the
Real and the Unreal arises from the page but also extends beyond it,
as the goal of textual ethnography is to trace the intersections between
cultural production and the hermeneutic imagination. This is seen most
clearly in chapter 2 when I speak with two sheikhs who discuss the re-
lationship between hermeneutics and religious authority, both agreeing
Introduction 21
that the multiplicity of meanings, the endlessness of meanings, of poetry
complicates notions of religious authority.
It is one thing to have an admiration and predilection for poetry as many
Iranians do, believing it to hold valuable life lessons and complex ideas, as
Niloofar Haeri and Michael Fischer have thoughtfully investigated.33 It
is another t hing to believe that poetry is a reflection of reality as a w
hole,
and as such can be used to transform the self at the divino-existential reg-
isters. As one of my interlocutors told me about his relationship with the
poet Hafez, “You cannot simply read Hafez [to understand him], you must
live with him.” Ultimately, I agree with Manoukian’s assertion, stated above,
that the Iranians view poetry as a means by which to experience themselves
as subjects in the world. I am only applying a more specific hermeneutic
stance here.
As previously mentioned, I also draw from Sufi publications and liter
atures as a critical lens; in other words, using passages and quotes from
their own literature in understanding my case studies. As such, the primary
sources I am utilizing include the sermons, decrees, epistles, essays, and
poetry written by the Sufi sheikhs of the order in the twentieth and twenty-
first centuries, with a particular focus given to (1) texts that were written
by sheikhs during the past twenty years and (2) texts that are widely read
by all lay Sufis. Many of these works are self-published by a Sufi publishing
house, Entesharat-e Haqiqat.
My focus is narrowed further still to the works of qotbs (literally “pole”
or “axis” but indicating highest religious authority) of the contemporary
era, with special attention given to the writings of those still active or very
recently passed. In this sense, I am working backward through the chain
of succession. By focusing on the work of the sheikhs and qotbs created in
recent memory, my goal is not only to begin to outline the current debates
and discourses within Iranian Sufism, but also to track t hose ideas which
have been encountered with more frequency by lay Sufis (darvish) in Iran.
For this reason, I draw more heavily from sermons and also introductory
texts, which, as I was informed by elders of the order, receive the most cir-
culation among their members. Of particular importance is the short trea-
tise Saleh’s Advice (Pand-e Saleh). Written in 1939 by the qotb Saleh Alishah
(1891–1966), Saleh’s Advice broadly outlines the group’s epistemologies
and, to a lesser extent, best practices. The majority of the texts used here
are thus available in Sufi bookstores and libraries, meaning t hose adjacent
to a meeting place (khaneqah), public libraries, and, to a lesser extent, pri-
vate bookstores, and a not insignificant number of them have been made
22 Introduction
available online. In addition, I draw from works of poetry of the medieval
canon that are highly familiar and widely read by my interlocutors: namely,
Rumi, Attar, Sa‘adi, Hafez, Hallaj, Baba Taher, and several prominent Sufi
philosophers,34 such as Junayd Baghdadi, Sayyed Haydar Amoli, Ahmad
Ghazzali, Bastami, and Shah Nimatullah Vali.35
Aesthetics and Affect
In order to trace these aforementioned intangible theories, I hope to pro-

vide a more material object of study by investigating the realm of senso-
rial affect, with a specific focus on the uses of intentional listening (sama).
Moreover, in addition to providing a concrete analytical endpoint, audition
is considered an absolutely central practice for many of my interlocutors,
existing not as a passive mode of reception but as a highly intentional act
that possesses near-infinite transformative capacities. Put more simply, lis-
tening is considered a strategy to achieve the experience of ma‘rifat in that
it provides a conduit, a cipher by which to unravel that moment of interac-
tion between the individual and the material world. Furthermore, it may be
argued that the type of knowledge inherent in aesthetic experience—that
strange information gathered from touching, tasting, seeing, hearing, smell-
ing—is very much analogous to the experience of unknowing: it needs to
be experienced before it can be understood. I further situate my analysis
within what might be called Islamic aesthetic theory, where I draw from
both canonical and contemporary writings of the Sufis focused on the phi-
losophies of music and listening. In this way, rather than carry out an analy
sis of the auditory itself, I trace instances and experiences of unknowing as
they are generated through sensorial affect. For it is through the affect, or
the impact or response, imparted onto someone or something that we are
able to see the transformative capacities inherent in sensoriality.
I draw from a number of literatures concerned with the intersection
of aesthetics and anthropology. Indeed, as audition is an undoubtedly es-
sential part of Islamic practice, it has been analyzed through the lens of
various subjects: from the initial revelation of the Qur’an to the call to
prayer,36 to the complex sermon tradition37—and I do hope to expand
upon the specifics of mystical sama with other interpretations of the uses
of audition in Islam. H ere, I draw from work about Islamic soundscapes
such as t hose by Charles Hirschkind, Brian Larkin, Naveeda Khan, and
Emilio Spadola.38
Introduction 23
Outside of the Islamic studies category, my work is situated within the
world of auditory anthropology, or “anthropologies of sound,”39 which not
only focus upon music, sound, and listening as objects of inquiry, but also
analyze the ways in which the auditory influences and is influenced by the
broader sociopolitical realm. In other words, they follow James Clifford’s
question: “Suppose that, instead of seeing t hose places, t hese anthropol-
ogists had heard them: how would they have theorized their encounters
with the other?”40 From this conjecture it is made apparent that such an
endeavor would not simply result in a cataloging of the particular sounds of
an environment, but rather would affect the way in which this environment
was approached critically, as we remember Attali’s declaration to “theo-
rize through sound.”41 By theorizing through intentional listening, and by
extension through the prism of a particularized aesthetic experience, one is
therein able to merge both perception and the production of critical thought
together into one instantiation of consciousness, until it is difficult to iden-
tify one from the other. Similarly, this project closely follows the work of
Michael Taussig,42 which considers not only the aesthetic experience as the
object and method of inquiry, but also looks to the transformative capabili-
ties of affect in regards to the anthropological inquiry more broadly.
Chapter Overview
Each chapter of this book, with the exception of the first, analyzes an indi-
vidual case study. These chapters all begin with an ethnographic anecdote
that describes the event or practice in question. This is then followed by
an analysis that traces the ways that particular mystical concepts present
within the case studies are applied to navigate the socio-material realm. In
utilizing this rhetorical technique, I adopt a more miniaturist stance, tak-
ing individual stories and unraveling them, ethnographically, rather than
exploring broader themes present within my research. This is perhaps a
less explicit mode of analysis, one that asks too much of the reader to try
to knit these disparate strands of ethnography together themselves, but in
doing so I feel I am avoiding laying claim to essentialisms about the Iranian
Sufi community, or at least doing so slightly less than might be otherwise.
Moreover, given the abstracted nature of certain aspects of mysticism, I
find beginning each chapter with an ethnographic anecdote provides more
solid ground upon which to venture into the chapter’s investigation. Or,
24 Introduction
perhaps more accurately, it is a reminder that the goal is to mine the con-
cepts and epistemologies at play within the ethnographic narratives and
not the other way around, and so the analysis unfolds as such. As Deleuze
has written: “Empiricism is by no means a reaction against concepts. . . .
On the contrary, it undertakes the most insane creation of concepts ever.”43
It is in this spirit that I foreground my chapters in the socio-material realm,
Unreal though it may be to the Sufis themselves.
chapter one: sufism in iran, iran in sufism
My first chapter explores the complexities b ehind the category of “mys-

ticism” within Iranian intellectual and political history, the legacies of
this convoluted history, and the prevalence of mystical thought outside
of Sufi circles. In sharp distinction to designations of Sufism as “hetero-
dox” and their non-Sufi “mainstream” counterparts as “orthodox,” Iranian
intellectual histories demonstrate no such clear bifurcation. I begin by
analyzing the ambiguity surrounding the terms Sufism (sufigari), liter-
ary mysticism (erfan), and scholarly mysticism (tasavvuf), and the subse-
quent difficulty involved in categorizing a person or group as Sufi or not
within the Iranian popular imagination. I then provide an overview of the
history of the Nimatullahi Sufi Order since the late nineteenth c entury,
with a focus on the complicated history between certain branches of the
Nimatullahi Sufi Order and the reigning political and theological authori-
ties in Iran, highlighting how these relationships have varied drastically
over time. From h ere, I highlight strains of Shi‘i clerical commitment to
mystical thought through the twentieth c entury, touching upon two of the
most famous members of the mystically inclined clergy (ulama): Ayatol-
lah Ruhollah Khomeini and Allameh Sayyed Mohammad Tabatabai. I also
draw on scholarship that explores the relationship between the seminaries
(howzeh) and Sufi Orders in the mid-twentieth century, mysticism in the
popular imagination as seen through self-help movements and popular
fiction, and recent publications by mystically inclined clerics in Mashhad.
While Unknowing and the Everyday does highlight several instances where
Iranian mystical thought diverges from “mainstream” Twelver thought,
by establishing this broader theological and sociohistorical landscape of
Iran, I hope to highlight how the mysticism of my interlocutors is simul
taneously convergent with and divergent from other forms of “Islamic
thought” (considered broadly) within contemporary Iran.
Introduction 25
chapter two: unknowing of text, unknowing of authority
My second chapter analyzes the transformative power of textual interpre-

tation (tafsir) for two Sufi reading groups. In particul ar, I trace the ways the
Sufis’ unique understanding of spiritual authority is directly tied to their
methods of tafsir. The members of these Sufi poetry reading groups be-
lieve that the tafsir of a text leads not to the correct answer in regard to its
meaning, but to yet more difficult questions contained therein. The text
is in a sense endless, its words able to convey countless ideas that lead to
ever deeper philosophical musings the further one goes in one’s analysis.
Thus, employing a hermeneutic method not dissimilar to many modern
and postmodern literary theorists of the twentieth c entury, the Sufis ad-
here to an interpretative framework for understanding Persian poetry that
mimics their understanding of knowledge as an exercise without limit or
finality. Furthermore, this understanding of tafsir holds vast consequences
not only for the possibilities contained within the text, but also the ways in
which the Sufis view the one who leads the reading group and guides them
in analysis: their sheikh. Indeed, in contrast to the mainstream Ja‘fari Shi‘i
clerics (mojtahed-ha), whose authority is directly derived from their train-
ing and the fact that they are able to interpret sacred texts more accurately
than lay people, therein providing the best answers to their students, the
Sufi sheikhs engage with a different form of authority. It is their ability to
guide their students (taleban) to find the appropriate questions, rather than
provide them with the most accurate answers for a text that distinguishes
them. Of course, anyone who has witnessed pedagogical sessions with
ulama know that many of them are also hesitant to provide straightfor-
ward answers, similarly reveling in contradictions and complications, and
yet I would argue that this form of pedagogy is never tied in any way to a
questioning of their authority as a whole. Hence, this chapter examines
these Sufi groups’ methods of literary analysis, and the ways in which they
apply to their broader ideas of gnosis and spiritual authority.
chapter three: unknowing of self, unknowing of body
My third chapter investigates the relationship between the Sufi remem-

brance ritual (zekr), sensorial engagement, and sociopolitical identity.
More specifically, I analyze how the Sufi idea of annihilation of the self
(fana), achieved through the bodily zekr ritual, has been reinterpreted by
my interlocutors in one of two ways: The first group articulates their
26 Introduction
understandings of fana in largely theological terms, discussing concepts
like the quieting of the lower soul (nafs-e ammara) and the turn to nonex-
istence. The second group, in contrast, describes their experience of fana
as the loss of a much more socialized self, interpreting the loss of self as the
loss of what might be called identity politics or the self in society. In the
final part of this section, I compare these Sufis’ desire to destabilize subjec-
tivity with calls by prerevolutionary Iranian intellectuals Jalal Al-e Ahmad
and Ali Shariati to “return to the self.” How might these thinkers, both of
whom advocate for a complex restoration of the self within a postcolonial
context, where they understand the “loss” of self not as something to be
desired but the outcome of, in part, colonial hegemony, reflect upon t hese
mystics longing for an extinguishment of the self? I conclude the chapter
by turning my attention to t hose Sufi aesthetic theories that expound upon
the relationship between intentional listening and the transformation of
the self specifically, understanding the ways that bodily and sensorial
engagement might invoke a momentary alternative to the sociopolitical
subject.
chapter four: unknowing of memory
My fourth chapter traces an instance of the destruction of a Sufi meeting

place (khaneqah) by the local authorities in the city of Isfahan in Febru-
ary 2009 and the Sufis’ response not to mourn the site, but to actively and
deliberately forget it in order to disavow the material in favor of the spiri-
tual. A shrine that was used as a site for Thursday and Friday prayer meet-
ings, it was h oused in the Takhteh-Foulad Cemetery that had recently been
dubbed an Islamic Heritage Site by unesco (the United Nations Educa-
tional, Scientific, and Cultural Organization). Following this designation,
the local authorities began to transform the cemetery into a tourist site and
destroyed the shrine on the grounds of “beautification” of the neighbor-
hood. Within this chapter, my focus is hence twofold: (1) an analysis of the
Sufis’ reaction to the actions of the authorities, both before and after the
demolition; and (2) how such commemoration differs from that of memo-
rialization processes of the Iranian state. Regarding the former, I analyze
the order’s curious decision to “remember to forget” the site. More spe-
cifically, the sheikhs advised their followers not to mourn the loss of the
site but to actively try to forget it, arguing that the material structure was
not important. From here, I examine how this command to “remember to
forget” is tied to both Sufi ideals of the relationship between remembrance
Introduction 27
and forgetting and Ja‘fari Shi‘i ideals of remembrance. I use this discus-
sion as a jumping-off point to explore the ways in which this technique of
commemoration exhibits both similarities and differences to the Islamic
Republic’s own exercises in the construction of public memory.
chapter five: unknowing of place
My fifth and final chapter focuses on the relationship between concepts

of wandering, intentional listening, and techniques of spatial formation
as seen through the establishment and rotation of meeting places. As au-
thorities continue to frown upon public gatherings, Sufis have sought al-
ternative methods of convening that allow them to create and maintain
an autonomous space while still complying with government regulations.
One informal Sufi youth group, meaning one operating without the in-
volvement of a sheikh or other spiritual leader, does so by meeting in pri-
vate homes and rotating locations each week to avoid attention from the
authorities. More notably, rather than let the participants know the exact
address of the meeting place, each week they announce a nearby intersec-
tion at which to meet and then proceed to broadcast music to allow the
members to locate the site by listening and hence “following” the sounds.
While texting and telephone calls are ultimately used to find the exact ad-
dress, in this chapter I examine (1) the ways that ideas of existential wan-
dering are implemented to help resolve a matter of state interference, (2)
the formation of a Sufi soundscape, and (3) the broader impact for the
creation of such a collective space within postrevolutionary Iran.
postscript: improvisations
I conclude my book by thinking about the utilization of unknowing

through the lens of improvisation. In musical improvisation, one draws
upon one’s prior training to instantaneously react to the immediate pre
sent. Similarly, the Sufis turn to their own mystical philosophies and ideas
of gnosis to navigate the sociopolitical realm, responding to external actors
by drawing upon their own training in real time. By drawing parallels be-
tween aesthetic and social improvisation, the postscript reaffirms the ways
in which the contemporary Iranian mystical experience is in conversation
with the sociopolitical realm, as well as the intricate relationship between
religious, aesthetic, and sociopolitical narratives in Iran.
28 Introduction
1 Sufism in Iran,
Iran in Sufism
We find certain scholars . . . denying the validity of mysticism and thus

depriving themselves of a form of knowledge. It is regrettable. . . . It
is regrettable that some of the ulama should entertain those suspicions
and deprive themselves of the benefits to be gained from the study of
mysticism. . . . Those who wear cloaks and turbans and denounce the
mystics as unbelievers do not understand what they are saying;
if they did, they would not denounce them.
ayatollah khomeini, islam and revolution (1981)
It was always difficult to discern which moments of my time in Iran

comprised “fieldwork” and which d idn’t; more often than not they
snuck up on me.
I had missed my friend’s Nahid’s birthday party, and I wanted to
stop by to see her and give her a small present. She worked as a teller
in a bank and usually got home around 4 p.m., so I met her at her
house a little while later. After some time, Nahid’s sister Farahnaz, a
middle school teacher, s topped by, wanting to borrow a dress to wear
to a wedding. I had met her only before in passing, and she joined us
now for tea. She inquired about my research and, a fter I gave her an
overview, she nodded and thought for a moment, then remarked:
“That’s very interesting. You know, I’m kind of like a Sufi.” To this her
sister gave her a look, somewhere between skepticism and bemuse-
ment. “Really? Since when are you a Sufi?”
“Well, see, i sn’t my bachelor’s degree in Persian literature? And I used
to go to t hose poetry meetings at Mrs. Nabavinejad’s house, with that guy
with the beard who played daf [frame drum]? Now that guy was really a
Sufi!”
Nahid remained unconvinced: “That just means you like adabiyat (Per-
sian literat ure)!
“No, but those meetings with that man, those were different! With his
daf drum, he sang those poems, we would go into a state [hal], and he was
always very calm. And remember for a while, right after college, I would
only wear a white rusari [a headscarf]?”
At this her sister laughed heartily. “Oh, well then, a white rusari! This
means a real Sufi! See, Seema, your research is done! Right here before you
is the g reat mystic [darvish]! Truly Madame Professor [khanoom ostad]
can tell you all you need to know!”
Farahnaz laughed too, embarrassed now, and said, turning to me, “So
rude, this one! Come on, I just said I was like a Sufi!”
An interest in poetry, the wearing of white, the slow collapse into a height-
ened emotional state (hal) . . . all cues that conveyed the spirit of a more
enigmatic form of Islamic worship for Farahnaz (if not enough to convince
Nahid). What defines a mystic, or mysticism in general, in Iran is not so
easily delineated and, beyond the confines of this sisterly debate, has in
fact been a point of contention within Iran for centuries. Indeed, some-
times these murky definitions result in debates like the one expressed h ere
by Farahnaz and Nahid, where the line between mysticism and New Age
ideals gets blurred, a topic thoughtfully explored by Alireza Doostdar,1 and
other times the stakes of what is and what is not mysticism can be much
higher.
There is first the term sufigari, which most closely approximates what
might be called “organized Sufism.” In addition to sufigari, however, is the
much more nebulously defined category of “mysticism” in all its myriad
instantiations—primarily understood to involve the categories of erfan
and tasavvuf alongside that of sufigari. Each of these terms provides a site
of contested meaning, with disparate political and theological entities lay-
ing claim to possessing the definitive version. The contestations over these
terms goes back u ntil at least the early modern Safavid era (ad 1500–1720),
and these assertions over the definition of mysticism have led to lasting
effects in the ways that the categories of Sufism, erfan, and tasavvuf
are viewed in Iran today. While erfan and to a lesser extent tasavvuf are
30 Chapter One

accepted as essential and revered elements of Iranian culture (farhang),
sufigari will elicit a much more mixed response, with some denouncing it
and others defending it.
At this point, however, I would like to be clear that when I discuss de-
nouncements of sufigari it is something quite different than a dismissal of
mysticism as a w hole. Too often Sufism and especially mysticism are la-
beled the “heterodox” counterpart to the “orthodoxy” of the Shi‘i clergy
(ulama), but r eally any such statements are nothing less than a gross mis-
characterization. Th ere is a long history of mystical ideas being discussed
within the seminaries in the twentieth c entury, which continues today.
Similarly, certain sheikhs and qotbs within Nimatullahi Iranian Sufi Orders
had ties to the seminaries, expressing interest in those conceptual matrices
such as law and ethics which are not not typically understood to be the
jurisdiction of Sufis (at least by those unfamiliar with the cross-pollination
of ideas between mystics and nonmystics).
Moreover, that which may be categorized as “mysticism” in Iran has been
discussed and advocated for by those in the highest seats of power and the
most vulnerable members of society, both before and after the advent of
the Islamic Republic, from the supreme leader (rahbar) to the homeless
wanderer (qalandar). In the medieval periods political leaders would some-
times compete to curry f avors with Sufi sheikhs,2 and in the early modern
era the authority of the influential Safavid dynasty arose partially out of
their claims as Sufi Seyeds, or descendants of the Prophet Muhammad.3
To assume a certain political orientation of an individual who espouses
mystical thought, in any of its instantiations, is presumptive and mis-
guided. This is especially true in North American and European popular
media, where Sufism is frequently posited as the warm and fuzzy branch
of Islam, interested only in “introspection” and other forms of nonsocially
oriented worship deemed acceptable by neoliberal (read: Protestant) ide-
alizations of religion.4
While I hope the other chapters of this book demonstrate how con
temporary mystical thought, here unknowing, influences and is influenced
by the sociotheological sphere, my goal with this opening chapter is to ex-
plore the complexities behind the category of “mysticism” within Iranian
intellectual and political history, the legacies of this complex history, and
the prevalence of mystical thought outside of Sufi circles. In other words, to
explore Sufism in Iran, and Iran in Sufism, or how that which is called “Su-
fism” has developed in Iran, and in particular how certain political machi-
nations have influenced Sufi practices and formulations, and likewise how
Sufism in Iran, Iran in Sufism 31

the sociopolitical and theological landscape of Iran has been s haped by
Sufi groups, especially in the early modern era. I first trace the emergence
of erfan, and how it came to impinge upon, and in some instances replace,
the term “mysticism” (tasavvuf/Sufism) in Iran. I then provide an overview
of the history of the relationship between some branches of the Nimatul-
lahi Sufi Order and the reigning political and theological authorities in Iran
since the early modern era, marking how it has varied drastically over time.
From t here, I briefly look at the position of erfan in Iran in the twentieth
and twenty-first centuries, including an explication of Ayatollah Khomei-
ni’s experience with the study of gnosis (erfan) while a student and teacher
at the religious seminaries in the city of Qom, the advocacy of esoterically
inclined hermeneutics by other prominent and up-and-coming clerics op-
erating in the seminaries today, and mysticism in the popular imagination
as seen through self-help movements and popular fiction. I conclude this
last section with an extended description of a typical session (jalaseh) of a
Nimatullahi Order today. In doing so, I hope to emphasize the point that
to assume a certain political stance of a Sufi group—and by this I mean
an allegiance to certain political parties or ideologies, that they are always
counter to the state or offer a heterodox viewpoint—is grossly misguided.
I ask that the four cases that follow this chapter be read with this larger
framing chapter in mind.
Sufism versus Mysticism versus Erfan: Contested Terms
Before delving into the genealogy of erfan, it is important to recognize the

vastly disparate responses that p eople w ill provide when asked to define
the word today. More specifically, their definition of the word may very
well reflect their religious affiliation and training. To a literate non-Sufi—
that is to say, the overwhelming majority of the population—erfan does
not mean mystical knowledge, but refers primarily to a distinctly Iranian
literary tradition, namely the poetry of a canon of the medieval Persian-
speaking poets Hafez, Sa‘adi, Rumi, and Ferdowsi, and at times to Iranian
traditional music (musiqiye asil-e Irani). Thus, to say that you are studying
erfan means for the majority of Iranians that you are studying literature
and/or a literary tradition (adabiyat), and almost always something dis-
tinctly Iranian. This nationalist bent that is often associated with erfan is a
phenomenon that demands much further analysis than afforded here, but
for now I would only highlight that, outside of Sufi and clerical discourses,
32 Chapter One

the category of erfan is not always immediately associated with Sufi or even
Shi‘i theologies.
In contrast, if you were to ask a religious seminarian, a member of the
clergy, or a more highly educated person to define the term, they would
tell you that erfan refers to a field of study or is related to a field of study,
namely that of Islamic mysticism (tasavvuf), which has a distinct history
within Shi‘i theosophy and theology. For some, it would also indicate that
form of “intuitive” or “esoteric” knowledge of the divine, a form of knowl-
edge championed by prominent twentieth-century Shi‘i thinkers like Al-
lameh Tabatabai, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, and Mohammad-Taqi
Bahjat. This understanding of tasavvuf and erfan bears striking similarities
to that of epistemologies of my interlocutors.
One of the most significant divergences between the theologians and
the Sufis, however, relates to the term “Sufism” (sufigari). For most of my
interlocutors, erfan, tasavvuf, and sufigari are all one and the same, while for
many theologians they connote different realities. In other words, while all
believe in the importance of esoteric knowledge, in the intuitive knowledge
of the divine, as it is sometimes known, a large segment of theologians do
not believe that collectives that call themselves Sufi o rders (tariqat) are
concerned with such pursuits, accusing them of focusing upon “idleness,”
“opium smoking,” and “begging” instead. For many members of the clergy,
individuals involved with organized Sufism (sufigari) either do not under-
stand mysticism or willfully ignore the proper formations, therein casting
such people as poseurs or, more violently, charlatans. Intriguingly, to ex-
plain this seemingly artificial discrepancy between the terms erfan, tasav-
vuf, and sufigari, one must look beyond theological debates and into the
arena of politics.
The Rise of the Idea of Erfan in Early Modern Iran
Having briefly touched upon the contested nature of the definition of erfan
that exists t oday, the question now arises as to how and why these contes-
tations surrounding the conceptions came to be.
To understand why, one must look to the period of history when the
Iranian plateau first became a Shi‘i stronghold: the early modern period.
Contrary to contemporary misconceptions, both Western and Iranian,
Shi‘ism only became truly widespread in Iran during the Safavid era (ad
1500–1720). It was at this time that the Safavids, themselves originally a

mystical order with Shi‘i leanings (extremist [ghulluw] though they may
have been in their earliest instantiations),5 began consolidating religious
and political power, the Shi‘i becoming the dominant force in the Iranian
plateau and the surrounding areas. It was also at the same time that many
Sufi orders w ere e ither expelled or left the country,6 as such groups w ere
viewed by the Safavids as unwelcome alternatives to their own designated
spiritual authority figures and hence political power as well.7 The Nimatul-
lahi Order left Iran around 1450 ce, and at the invitation of Sultan Ahmad
Shah Al Wali Bahmani spent roughly the next three hundred years in exile
in Bidar, India, and the surrounding areas.8
Given the widespread forced and unforced migration of the vast major-
ity of Sufi o rders, one might assume that that would be the end of mystical
thought in Iran for the time being. As Ata Anzali has demonstrated, how-
ever, this was not to be the case.9 With the publication of his “Mysticism” in
Iran: The Safavid Roots of a Modern Concept, Anzali has written the most
authoritative interpretation of why, when, and how erfan and Sufism (su-
figari) became distinct concepts.10 According to Anzali and others, mysti-
cal epistemologies were never expelled from Iran e ntirely, but rather the
mystical epistemologies that had been circulating during this era were sub-
sumed under the new Shi‘i leadership, so much so that the theology of the
Safavid era is often known as “Esoteric Shi‘ism.”11 The men writing t hese
esoteric philosophies w ere all jurists, however, with official posts in the hi-
erocracy; they did not bear the title of “Sufi,” and were indeed the respected
legal scholars of their time. Moreover, this mystically tinged form of Shi‘i
scholarship was allowed to thrive due to the patronage of Shah Abbas I
(d. 1629), the leader whose very dynastic forebears had driven out many of
the organized mystic orders.
This esoteric Shi‘ism, also known as Shi‘i theosophy, reached its apex
with the School of Isfahan,12 a so-called renaissance of Islamic philoso-
phy that was composed of such famous Shi‘i thinkers as Sheikh Bahai
(d. ad 1621), Mir Damad (ad 1630), and most notably, Mulla Sadra
(d. ad 1640), one of the most famed theologians in all of Iranian his-
tory, who is today memorialized in contemporary Iran with streets and
squares bearing his name. Mulla Sadra was particularly well versed in the
writing of the famed Andalusian Sufi Ibn Arabi, and adopted Ibn Arabi’s
insan-i kamel (perfected man) and wahdat al-wujud (unity of existence)
as major interests,13 synthesizing them with other schools of thought,
such as t hose of the Illuminationists (hikmat-e eshraq) and Twelver
jurisprudence.
34 Chapter One

What explains this seeming contradiction? In other words, why would
the Safavid authorities condone and act as patrons for the mystically ori-
ented works of the School of Isfahan but strongly condemn and quell Sufi
orders? The answer lies in the fact that the actual theological orientation
of the Sufis was not the primary concern, but rather the fact that organized
collectives of the Sufis posed a threat to the sovereignty of the Safavids, a
threat that was not entirely unfounded.14
To distinguish between the two groups then, what happened was that
the category of erfan (mystical knowledge) largely replaced that of sufigari
(Sufism), all the while perpetuating the study and advocacy of many of
the same themes. Despite the obvious common grounds, so clear was the
bifurcation between erfan and sufigari in that era that Mulla Sadra himself
wrote a treatise against Sufism, wherein he railed against the wandering,
drug-taking darvish who begged for alms—largely the only self-identified
Sufis who remained at the time.
Certainly, this is only a cursory overview of a complex genealogy of the
terms erfan, tasavvuf, and sufigari. For our purposes, however, what I wish to
emphasize h ere is that, within the Iranian context, not only does the word
mysticism (tasavvuf, erfan) exist at times as a separate and distinct category
from Sufism, but Sufism’s critics would contend that Sufism is also distinct
from mysticism/erfan/tasavvuf (a criticism that the Sufis themselves would
vehemently deny). This is not to say that Sufism in Iran has been routinely
and categorically condemned since the sixteenth-century Safavid era; far
from it. Merely that, due to this religio-political maneuver of the Safavids,
there has been the opportunity to create sharp distinctions between the cat-
egories of erfan/tasavvuf and sufigari, which may not have otherwise existed
from a theological standpoint. For this reason, the Shi‘ism of Iran shares
a long history with mystical knowledge (erfan), but not Sufism (sufigari).
This politically motivated bifurcation of these theological categories
has imparted a legacy that remains t oday. Namely, while the term Sufi or
even sufigari is far from taboo, and sometimes studied as a topic of inquiry,
it has come to mean something much more specific than the far-reaching
erfan, which is the term known by most literate peoples, even if understood
as referring to a specific literary tradition. For while the mystics themselves
understand the word Sufism as synonymous with mystical epistemologies/
gnosis, for t hose outside of mystical circles it refers primarily to the frater-
nities or organizational entities.
Currently, erfan is offered as a field of specialization at many r eligious
seminaries (howzeh) and secular universities in Iran t oday. Mysticism

then, at least in its tasavvuf/erfan form, is understood to be a serious topic
of study and, with the exception of a few prominent clerics,15 is not con-
demned in and of itself. Indeed, even Ayatollah Mohammad Taghi Mes-
bah Yazdi, a member of the Assembly of Experts and often purported
to be one of the most “hard-line” and conservative clerics, has written
on erfan.16 Sufism too, is a topic of inquiry, although usually from a his-
toriographical perspective. It is thus important to remember that the
championing of erfan does not necessarily equate the condemnation of
Sufism, merely its diminishing, and the vulnerability that such diminish-
ing allows.
Indeed, the interest in tasavvuf/erfan and the perpetuation of its themes
in seminaries and society at large continues undaunted and has continued
to attract many students since the time when Shi‘ism became the state reli-
gion of Iran. In fact, perhaps one of its most famous adherents lived during
the twentieth century: Ayatollah Khomeini himself. Beyond Khomeini,
figures invested in political Islam, including Mortaza Motahhari and Ali
Shariati, have also expressed interest in mysticism, and it is their ideas
I turn to now.
The Gnostic as Supreme Leader (Rahbar)

and Mystical “Political Islam”
Ruhollah Khomeini began his studies in mysticism while a seminary stu-

dent, initially under the tutelage of Mirza Ali Yazdi (d. ad 1926), who was
himself a student of Husayn Sabzavari, the author of Shahr-i Mazuma, one
of the most foundational texts on gnosis in Shi‘ism.17 Khomeini’s primary
teacher, however, was Muhammad Ali Shahabadi (d. ad 1950), u nder
whose instruction he studied erfan for six years. As Hamid Algar notes,
Shahabadi initially denied Khomeini’s request to work with him, instruct-
ing him to study the more rationally oriented Islamic philosophy (hekmat)
instead, but Khomeini was so insistent on studying erfan that he managed
to convince his teacher.18
In Alexander Knysh’s “ ‘Irfan’ Revisited: Khomeini and the Legacy of
Islamic Mystical Philosophy,”19 he conducts a close reading of some of Kho-
meini’s e arlier writings on mysticism. Khomeini was an admirer of Mulla
Sadra, that early modern “nonmystic,” and his work Kitab al-Asfar (Book of
Journeys), which is Sadra’s account of the four stages of mystical wayfaring,
36 Chapter One

and tracks the movements and oscillations between self, God, and world.
What is noteworthy about this is that the final stage marks the enlightened
self, traveling from “man to man, bestowing on his community a new dis-
pensation of spiritual and moral order.”20 Khomeini’s studies also highlight
his interest in one aspect of the Andalusian Sufi Ibn Arabi’s insan-e kamel
(ideal man), wherein a religious leader leads a community of believers.
In addition to his studies, Khomeini eventually wrote his own mysti-
cal treatise, entitled The Lamp Showing the Right Way to Viceregency and
Sainthood (Misbah al-hidaya ila al-khilafa wa al-wilaya) in 1930, in which
he remarked upon the supremacy of the gnostics: “In contrast to them
[the theologians], the gnostic [arif], unveiling the divine one [elah] . . . is
possessor of both eyes.”21 His interest in Sufism continued after he began
his teaching position in the seminary at Qom, and it was for his teaching in
mysticism and ethics that he first drew attention.22 In addition, at the time,
and even after he had assumed the position of supreme leader (rahbar),
Khomeini famously always lived simply, eschewing luxury and living in a
modest home until his death, perhaps embracing the ascetic life espoused
by certain Sufis.
And while Khomeini’s interest in mysticism was eventually overshad-
owed by his political activism, he never once disavowed his early teachings
and writings, nor did he dismiss them as the misguided interests of a young
man. In fact, he himself personally granted explicit permission for his su-
percommentaries and treatises on mysticism to be published in the 1980s
after his rise to power.23 Finally, it is of g reat significance that Khomeini
also made reference to a Nimatullahi Gonabadi darvish, Mulla Sultan Ali,
during a series of televised lectures on Surat al-Fatiha,24 the opening chap-
ter of the Qur’an. He mentions him during his first lecture, “Everything is a
Name of God,” when he speaks of “mystics” who wrote well on the chapter,
as well as clerics (ulama) who also did a good job, but that none represent
a “complete interpretation.” 25 In essence, Khomeini uses the examples of
these two categories of thinkers—along with several others—to relay the
point that a complete interpretation of the Qur’an is nearly impossible,
and that even his own interpretation within the lecture series is “based on
possibility, not certainty.”26
Ayatollah Khomeini was also a composer of mystical poetry, which he
wrote throughout his life. Ahoo Najafian has provided the first close read-
ing and analysis of Khomeini’s mystical poetry, as well as its publication, in
her dissertation “Poetic Nation: Iranian Soul and Historical Continuity.”27 In

her research, Najafian notes that while the majority of Khomeini’s poetry
was kept hidden from the public for most of his life, upon his passing his
daughter-in-law published his most recent compositions, meaning those
that he had written during the last few years of his life.28 Although t here
was some initial outcry at the publication, the poetry has been continually
published since then, and by none other than the Institute for the Compi-
lation and Publication of the Works of Imam Khomeini, the official institu-
tion for publishing Khomeini’s written work. The institute has even gone
so far as to publish some of his poems online and in translation, 29 with
excerpts like the following being made available online:
I have become imprisoned, O beloved, by the mole on your lip!

I saw your ailing eyes and became ill through love.
Open the door of the tavern and let us go there day and night
For I am sick and tired of the mosque and seminary.
The dramatic professions of love, the relinquishing of the mosque for the
tavern: it is easy to see why certain compatriots of Khomeini might feel
uncomfortable with such declarations being made public, especially if they
are unfamiliar with the mystical tradition or would be concerned that the
general public might misconstrue the supreme leader’s words. And yet the
institute published and continues to publish these words—the objections
of any naysayers not enough for the Imam’s divan to be hidden from the
light of day. Ayatollah Khomeini’s exploration of very common mystical
themes such as intoxication, imprisonment, all-consuming love, and the
rejection of the rational (the seminary, the mosque) in favor of the ecstatic
(the tavern) shows not only an awareness of the potentially more “contro-
versial” concepts within the mystical tradition, but an enthusiastic engage-
ment with them. From the information available to us, from his time as a
young seminary student to his last years as the most powerful individual
within the Iranian nation and an internationally recognized proponent of
what is often called “political Islam,” Ayatollah Khomeini never saw his
interest in mysticism falter in any serious way, nor did he ever view it as
contradictory to his theological and political aims.
Ultimately, I have wished to briefly touch upon Khomeini’s interest in
and embrace of erfan to highlight the ways in which mysticism and Ira
nian Twelver Shi‘ism are not only not oppositional to one another, where
to declare one the “heterodox” counterpart to the other “orthodoxy” is a
gross simplification of m atters, but also to demonstrate that they have in
38 Chapter One

fact been deeply intertwined for long stretches of Iranian/proto-Iranian
history, and sometimes overlapping in the most unexpected of places.
Mystically Inclined Clerics in Twentieth-Century Iran
Beyond Khomeini, t here are a number of key clerical figures and schools
of thought within or adjacent to the seminary system who embraced an
esoterically inclined form of Shi‘ism.
The most famous and perhaps most influential is Allameh Sayyed Mo-
hammad Tabatabai (d. ad 1981). Originally from Tabriz, Tabatabai stud-
ied in Najaf under Grand Ayatollah Sheikh Mohammad-Hossein Naini
Gharavi and Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Qadi Tabatabai, himself a renowned
teacher of mysticism, and from whom he learned about the importance of
studying mysticism alongside philosophy and theology.30 While Allameh
Tabatabai is perhaps best known for his massive, twenty-seven volume of
Qur’anic exegesis, Tafsir Al-Mizan, he made many other contributions in
the field of tafsir generally, including his twelve-volume analysis of Hafez
and on the works of Mulla Sadra.
When he began teaching Mulla Sadra’s Hikmat Al Muta’alyahfi-l-asfar
al-‘aqliyya al-arba‘a in the Qom Seminary, the classes proved so popular
that he felt compelled to make them open to the public.31 It was then that
he received pushback from the powers that be in Qom to not offer public
classes on a potentially controversial topic. In response, Tabatabai penned
the following letter to Ayatollah Borujerdi, head of the seminary:
I came from Tabriz to Qum only in order to correct the beliefs of the stu-
dents on the basis of the truth and to confront the false beliefs of material-
ists and others. . . . But today every student who comes to Qum comes with
a suitcase full of doubts and problems. We must come to the aid of these
students and prepare them to confront the materialists on a sound basis
by teaching them authentic Islamic philosophy. I will not, therefore, aban-
don the teaching of the Asfar. At the same time, however, since I consider
Ayatollah Borujerdi to be the repository of the authority of the sharīa, the
matter w ill take on a different aspect if he commands me to abandon the
teaching of the Asfar.32
In other words, he declared that he would continue to teach the material

unless Ayatollah Borujerdi commanded him to do so in his position as a
religious authority. What I find particularly compelling in his letter is his

assertation that “we must come to the aid of these students and prepare
them to confront the materialists on a sound basis by teaching them authentic
Islamic philosophy” (emphasis mine). H ere, Tabatabai seems to be mak-
ing a case that it is not only the imparting of wisdom that he is invested in,
but it is important for his students to be educated in such m atters in order
to be better positioned to wrestle with the forces of materialism. Th ere
seems to be an element of a more outward-looking stance a dopted here by
the esoteric philosopher, one who wished his students to be prepared for
potentially hostile forces at play in the world.
And Tabatabai had some students who went on to become hugely influ-
ential figures in Iranian history. For while Tabatabai is very well known for
his embrace of mysticism (tasavvuf), many of his students are less known
for embracing such a perspective, despite their deep respect and reverence
for him. Indeed, one such student, Mortaza Motahhari, is known much
more for his political activism before and immediately after the 1977–79
revolution, especially in English-language scholarship. Upon closer exami-
nation, however, it is clear that he never wavered far from his teacher’s les-
sons (despite Allameh Tabatabai’s lack of involvement in any revolutionary
activities). Here I turn again to the work of Ahoo Najafian. Najafian has
shown us how Mortaza Motahhari, a key ideologue of the Iranian Revolu-
tion and student, supporter, and later close advisor of Ayatollah Khomeini,
was deeply invested in defending erfan against its detractors, who claimed
it was anti-Islamic. Most notably, he does so by demonstrating the mystical
and philosophical underpinnings of the poet Hafez, rallying against those
who consider him “just” a literary figure. Beyond simply positing Hafez
as mystically oriented, a common if debatable stance to take, according
to Najafian it was Motahhari’s aim to establish the Sunni Hafez as an eso-
terically oriented Shi‘i above all else. He bases this claim on the idea that
certain themes prevalent within Hafez’s oeuvre—ambiguity, secrecy, the
unseen, paradox, and more—are also key concepts within Shi‘i cosmolo-
gies. In doing so, Motahhari renders not only Hafez as mystically inclined
but posits Shi‘ism itself to be contingent upon esoteric ideas. Last, Najafian
points out how the stakes of this claim are made all the higher by the fact
that Motahhari’s interpretation of Hafez was inspired, at least in part, as
an attempt to reclaim Hafez from nationalist and Marxist readings, under-
standing him instead as a sort of crypto/proto-Shi‘i.
Beyond the extremely high-profile clerics Motahhari and Tabatabai,
there are other less famous but still influential figures within the semi-
40 Chapter One

nary who embrace esoteric Shi‘ism. Seyed Amir Asghari’s dissertation,
“Islamic Philosophy and Sufism in the Contemporary Shia Seminary and
their Opponents (1850–present),”33 provides the most in-depth analysis
of the position of mystical thought within the modern Iranian seminary.
Asghari uses previously unexplored source material to outline the debates
between proponents of teaching mystical thought within the seminary and
its detractors. More specifically, he analyzes the works of the “School of
Self-Knowledge” (Maktab Ma’rifat al-Nafs), a school that advocates for a
more esoterically inclined form of Shi‘ism to be taught within the seminar-
ies, from the late nineteenth c entury through the present day, as well as
exploring the school’s strong ties to two Sufi orders outside the seminary
system. Indeed, the School of Self-Knowledge was an institutional version,
or perhaps counterpart, to the Zahabiyya Sufi Order, and Asghari suggests
that the Zahabiyya Order had its very origins within the seminary. Qutb
al-Din Nayrizi and Mulla Ali Nuri, the Mulla Sadra revivalist, are among its
famous members. Asghari also offers intellectual biographies of figures like
Mulla Husaynquli Shavandi Hamadani and Shaykh Muhammad Bahari
(ad 1907), both certified mojtaheds trained in fiqh, who championed the
importance of teaching mystical treatises like divine love and wayfaring
(suluk). Ultimately, Asghari’s work challenges the notion that Sufi thought
only developed outside the seminaries.
Such rich and productive debates continue today. In the contemporary
era, key figures within the seminary and the university system continue
to champion mystical thought, including Ayatollah Hassan Hasanza-
deh Amoli (b. ad 1928), Ayatollah Abdollah Javadi Amoli (b. ad 1933),
Seyyed Mohammad Husayn Husayni Tihrani (d. ad 1995), Mohammad
Hasan Vakili (b. ad 1980), and Sayyid Mohammad Musavi, to name a
few. Tihrani was particularly influential in promoting esoterically oriented
Shi‘ism, establishing the Mashhad seminaries as perhaps the place to study
Shi‘i mysticism within Iran, and his biographies of the Iraqi mystic Sayyid
Hashim Haddad (d. ad 1984) and his own teacher Allamah Tabatabai are
among the most widely read tomes of Shi‘i mysticism.34 The young mo-
jtahed Mohammad Hasan Vakili has noted that he decided to attend the
Mashhad Seminary because of the legacy of figures like Tihrani,35 and his
recent publication explores the Shi‘i inclinations of Ibn Arabi, a favorite
subject of Tihrani.36
Another Mashhad-based proponent of esoterism, Sayyid Jalal al-Din
Ashtiyani (d. 2005), was a student of Allameh Tabatabai and a professor

who taught at both the University of Mashhad and the Mashhad Seminary
for many years. Ashtiyani was a staunch defender of esoterism, and harshly
criticized Sufism’s detractors, such as his colleague Mirza Mahdi Isfahani,
a member of the antiphilosophy and antimysticism Tafkiki (Separation)
School, for failing to properly understand Sufism and lashing out due to
an inability to fully comprehend it.37
Finally, Ayatollah Abdollah Javadi Amoli is also a compelling figure
among the contemporary seminarians, with more than just a passing in-
terest in mystical thought. A former member of the Assembly of Experts,
Ayatollah Javadi Amoli has not only held a prominent role in the Qom
seminary (howzeh) for many years, but also has been highly active in poli-
tics, publicly commenting on issues related to Iran’s nuclear programs and
elections, consulting with the Ministry of the Interior and Ministry of Is-
lamic Culture and Guidance, and acting as a long-standing critic of Iran’s
banking sector and policies.38 Alongside this, he has published extensively
on erfan, with a particul ar interest in the role of velayat as it pertains to mys-
ticism. Javadi Amoli has also spoken on what he views to be the mystical
dimension of Khomeini’s thinking, which he always refers to as the erfani
dimension, in talks such as “The Mystical Characteristics of Khomeini.”39
At a meeting with the Society for the Ahlul-Bayt, his institute on the sub-
ject of mysticism in 2019, the Ayatollah stated, “The epistemology of true
mysticism (erfan) is the intuition of essence. There stands no veil between
God and creation except for creation itself (‫ عرفان شناسی معرفت‬،‫شهود حقیقی‬
‫است ذات‬/‫)!خلق خود مگر نیست حجابی هیچ خلق و خدا بین‬.40 Such a statement, situ-
ated within a conversation on how the true meaning (mozu) of mysticism
(erfan) is the presence of infinite truth, would not be out of place coming
from any Sufi sheikh. Indeed, Javadi Amoli goes on to state that with this
worldview and understanding of mysticism, “the whole world becomes an
aya” (kol-e jahan mishavad ayat), or a verse of the Qur’an. Here, we see the
world as text, and text as world.
I offer this brief overview of these esoterically inclined clerics—some
prominent, some up-and-coming—w ithin the seminary and university
systems in order to demonstrate the prevalence of mystical thought out-
side of Sufi o rders in Iran today. The Iranian seminary system is a place of
enormously rich and complex debates, with creative thinkers and prolific
writers producing a theoretically, politically, and philosophically diverse
range of materials, and so for t hose familiar with the recent output it is
unsurprising that it contains advocates of mystical thought.41 Th ese advo-
cates are not without their detractors, of course; t here are many who write
42 Chapter One

against the role of mysticism as a hermeneutic device or its place within
exegesis or “serious” scholarly research. Such debates do not give evidence
to a blanket condemnation of mysticism as some sort of “heterodox” aber-
ration, however, but are rather just that: debates, therein demonstrating
the seriousness with which esotericism is considered. From Khomeini and
Motahhari to Shariati to local groups of self-identified darvish, the ques-
tion of mystical thought, whether in its iterations of erfan, tasavvuf, or su-
figari, is to be found throughout an array of theoretically and politically
diverse intellectual circles.
Non-Sufi Mystical Thought in Contemporary Iran
I have previously described mysticism in Iran as a shape-shifter, but it might

also be thought of as something like an infiltrator. Outside of the seminar-
ies, universities, Sufi groups, and poetry circles, mystical thought can be
found in a wide variety of settings. Niloofar Haeri’s nuanced ethnography of
middle-class w omen’s prayer circles has shown how their interpretations of
Islam have been affected by education—both formal and informal—in Per-
sian poetry.42 In particular, she highlights how certain concepts taken from
the poetry of Rumi, Hafez, and Sa‘adi influence the women’s understandings
of Islam and their relationship to God. These concepts like “the beloved”
and “presence of the heart” (hozur-e del), very common tropes of mystical
thought found within Persian poetry, are what allow the w omen to feel a par
ticular emotional closeness and intimacy with God, such that the moment
of prayer is transformed into a time for close engagement with the divine,
rather than the rote and mechanized practice that prayer is often purported
to be. As such, these mystical ideas, typically associated with poetic works,
then influence the women’s interpretation and experience not only of prayer
but of religion as a w hole. Lastly, Haeri also analyzes the genre of popular
literature and essay writing that she categorizes as “simple erfan,” works ex-
pounding upon mystical epistemologies written by nonexperts, typically
women. While the category itself is already of interest, Haeri points out that
these works of “simple mysticism” are organized in the prayer books (ketab-e
dua) section of bookstores, indicating that popular mysticism is not consid-
ered out of place in the presumably more sober arena of prayer.
In another example of the reach of mystical thought, Alireza Doostdar’s
exploration of contemporary occult practices in Iran also demonstrates the
popularity of debates and discourse surrounding the question of the unseen

(al-ghayb). In sharp distinction with my interlocutors, who continually
stress the limits of rational thought (aql), Doostdar’s interlocutors’ focus
is the underscoring of the rational and scientific elements of occult prac-
tices, as they work to dispel accusations of charlatanism and superstition
(khorafa) leveled against them. Despite the differing analytical stance of our
interlocutors, both this book and Doostdar’s demonstrate the intellectual
investment in unseen realms; whether it be through spiritualist practices of
the occult or Sufi striving toward the Unreal, the otherworldly is of interest.
Moreover, Doostdar has highlighted the influence of esoteric ideals among
the interlocutors, including a movement called “Cosmic Mysticism” (erfan-
e keyhani), an Iranian “spiritual-therapeutic movement”43 that was s haped
by a wide array of influences including Western esotericism, Buddhist ide-
als, self-help gurus like Wayne Dyer, the fiction of Paulo Coelho, radiation
therapy, and, if less explicitly, Sufi ideas.44 For although the Cosmic Mystics
do not discuss traditional Sufi concepts (fana, wandering) or sources (the
writings of sheikhs, poetry, e tc.), they are interested in alternative forms of
consciousness, the importance of revelation, and of course the unseen—
all ideas well within the wheelhouse of many Sufis. As Doostdar astutely
points out in an analysis of the writings of Mohammad Taheri, leader of
the Cosmic Mystics—himself a pir-type figure—what Taheri is essentially
arguing for is that “scientific knowledge about the world may be received in
the form of revelation or mystical thinking,”45 and these are ideas that have
been prevalent within Iranian thought for centuries, including within Sufi
circles. In other words, the Cosmic Mystics are engaged with and pulling
from religio-scientific discourses that have long existed within intellectual
circles in Iran, and these religio-scientific discourses have long been influ-
enced by and influence Sufi epistemologies.
While I would in no way argue that this spiritual-therapeutic group is
a type of “neo-Sufism,” not least because the group themselves bristled
against accusations of them as wannabe or pseudo-Sufis, and nor do I think
such an “are they or aren’t they” would be particularly productive or inter
esting, what I do wish to point out is the investment in esotericism. What
I find compelling is that, despite the differences between the New-Ageists,
occultists, spiritualists, and so forth, and the Nimatullahi Sufis, they share
an affinity for exploring esoteric lines of inquiry, even if the answers, or
sometimes solutions, they ultimately arrive at are quite different.
The last arena of Sufi infiltration I w ill mention is that of contemporary
poetry. While tracing the presence of mystical ideas within contemporary
44 Chapter One

poetry in Iran is a book-length project in and of itself, I will touch upon one
work that has investigated such trends. I have already mentioned Niloofar
Haeri’s astute analysis of “simple erfan” literature and essay writing. In an-
other recently published work, Fatemeh Shams offers a close examination
of contemporary poetry, some state-sponsored and some not, that is explic
itly supportive of the ideals, events, and leaders of the Islamic Revolution.
The themes and ideas that Shams unpacks in this rich examination of an
understudied corpus of contemporary Iranian literature are many, and
among them are what she calls “mystic combative poetics.”46 This refers
to forms of poetry and poetic writing focused on war—both the Iran-Iraq
War of 1980–88 specifically as well as war in general—that use mystical
motifs to extol battlefield-worthy virtues such as journeying, sacrifice, and
more, so that they might “turn war into a path-of-love (rah-e eshq).”47 For
example, Shams observes how the poet Hamid Sabzevari makes reference
to the “seven valleys of the quest of love” from Attar’s Sufi classic Confer-
ence of the Birds (Mantaq-al Tayr), which is typically understood to be a
story a journey of self-discovery and recognition, and a refutation of the
idea of ego. Sabzevari instead uses the references to Attar’s “quest of love”
as a way to shed light on “the hardship and adversities of revolutionary
insurgency . . . as an invitation to join the revolutionary crowds.”48 Shams
also briefly touches upon the mystical interpretations of death and mar-
tyrdom in war poetry, describing how wine and intoxication are equated
in certain works with blood and death to formulate a sort of “enchantment
of death,”49 implying death is a heady, enriching, and ultimately desirous
event. As Shams’s work demonstrates, mysticism holds appeal not only for
women’s poetry groups and New Age and occultist healers, but also for
war-hardened veterans and patriots of the Islamic Republic.
In these sections, I hope to have highlighted recent important scholar-
ship that touches upon the far reach of mystical epistemologies outside of
Sufi circles in contemporary Iran, from the seats of revolutionary power
and the authority of the seminaries to the living rooms of lay p eople to
the witchy practices of exorcists, all are at least partially familiar with (and
some extraordinarily conversant with) mystical concepts and conceits,
writings and reflections. In emphasizing t hese trends, I hope to again im-
press upon the point that to categorize mysticism as a form of “heterodox”
Islam overlooks, in an incredibly egregious fashion, the deep and myriad
ways that esoteric ideas have influenced so many facets of Iranian artistic
and intellectual output.

The History of the Nimatullahi Order
With this understanding of the conflicted history of the category of erfan, we

will turn our attention to the history of the Nimatullahi Order. In this way,
we may see how the bifurcations of erfan translated into the sociopolitical
sphere beyond the Safavid era.
The Nimatullahi Sufi Order was founded by Shah Nimatullah Vali (d.
ad 1431) at the turn of the fifteenth c entury.50 Born in Aleppo in ad 1330
to a Syrian father and an Iranian mother, he left his hometown while still
a youth and spent many years traveling throughout the Muslim world in
search of a spiritual teacher. Finally, he encountered Sheikh Abdollah Yafe‘i
in Mecca, and proceeded to study with him for a period of seven years.
Following this period of instruction, Shah Nimatullah began his second
round of travels, now in the role of teacher and guide rather than “thirsty
seeker.”51 His travels took him through Egypt, Central Asia, and then to
Samarkand. He initially wished to cease his travels and stay in Samarkand,
but its ruler, Tamerlane, forced him to continue on his journey, not being
“appreciative” of his teachings. He continued on. First to Herat, and then
ultimately westward to Kerman, in the southwest of Iran. As the story goes,
after politely refusing offers of residence bestowed upon him by sultans
and great men of learning, he chose to stay in Kerman at the request of an
old beggar woman, who served him bread and yogurt and asked him to
stay. There he remained for the rest of his long life. Once in Kerman, Shah
Nimatullah received hundreds of disciples, who traveled from lands as far
as India and Andalusia to study with him. He was a prolific writer, and it
was said he wrote three hundred compilations and treatises on scientific,
gnostic, and literary works in both Farsi and Arabic. Shah Nimatullah was
the composer of his own collection of poetry (divan), and was primarily
interested in the works of Ibn Arabi, in particular Ibn-Arabi’s Bezels of Wis-
dom (Fusus al-Hikam). A fter living to be over a hundred years old, Shah
Nimatullah died in 1430 and was buried in the small town of Mahan, about
thirty-five kilometers from Kerman. An elaborate tomb was erected by the
ruler Ahmed I Vali in the years immediately following Shah Nimatullah’s
passing, and today it remains a highly popular pilgrimage site for the Ni-
matullahi Order.
Following the passing of Shah Nimatullah, his son Shah Khalilullah suc-
ceeded him as the order’s leader. At this time, as previously discussed, the
Safavids were beginning to coalesce their power in Iran, and subsequently
46 Chapter One

to expel or consolidate any potential rival factions. In order to avoid this
possible threat, Shah Khalilullah moved the entire order to Bidar, India, at
the invitation of the sultan of Bidar, Ahmad Shah Al Wali Bahmani, who
had been a follower of Shah Nimatullah. The majority of the order would
continue to stay in India for nearly another three hundred years, u ntil the
disintegration of the powers of the Safavid dynasty left a power vacuum,
as well as the opportunity to return.
A Return: The Nimatullahi in the Qajar Era
The return of the Nimatullahi Order from Bidar to Iran marks the begin-
ning of the current instantiation of the order and the revival of organized
Sufism in Iran as a whole. As the Safavid dynasty fell into disarray, its state-
approved ulama no longer held exclusivity over the positions of spiritual
authority, and what followed was a period of contestation and vying for
power among the clergy. Indeed, with the advent of the Qajar dynasty
(ad 1785–1925) came a time of weakened centralized state power, result-
ing in the flourishing of locally based spiritual leaders and jurists through-
out Iran, including various Sufi sheikhs. Among them, of course, was the
Nimatullahi Order, whose numbers swelled during this time.52 Indeed, so
popular did it prove in certain regions that the governor of Kerman vastly
expanded the shrine of Shah Nimatullahi.
This is not to say that t here w
ere not challenges involved in their ini-
tial return. Most significantly, it was also at this time that the order first
declared itself to be a Shi‘i order, largely to comply with the reigning Shi‘i
ulama.53 Indeed, the return of the Nimatullahi Order to Iran was largely
the result of the efforts of three men: Husayn Ali Shah, Majdhub Ali Shah
and Mast Ali Shah, who w ere able to carefully maneuver the theologico-
political landscape at the time.
Husayn Ali Shah, in particular, was very strategic in this regard, and ex-
tremely mindful about even disclosing his identity as a Sufi. He was in fact
a trained jurist, having studied in the seminaries of Isfahan, and wore the
robes of his fellow clergy, thereby appearing indistinguishable from the
others. His primary goal was to distinguish the Nimatullahi Order from
the wandering, “libertine” Nimatullahi darvish who had remained in Iran,
and in a sense to reestablish their reputation as a “legitimate” and respect-
able order. His major treatise was a response to a Christian missionary

named Henry Martyn, in defense of Shi‘i theology.54 Ultimately, while his
philosophical writings w ere limited, his main legacy was the reintroduction
of the Nimatullahi Order to the seminaries of Iran.
His successor, Majdhub Ali Shah, was in contrast a hugely prolific
writer who expounded explicitly Sufi ideas with much more conviction,
while at the same time arguing that such mystical ideals were resolutely
Shi‘i as well. Trained in the seminary sciences, Majdhub Ali Shah’s greatest
contribution was positioning Sufism as a legitimate topic of debate within
the seminary systems, holding his own against attacks from vehemently
anti-Sufi clerics like Aqa Muhammad Ali Behbehani.55 In addition to this,
it was under his rule that the ranks of the Nimatullahi Order greatly in-
creased, due in large part not only to his scholarship and leadership but
also to the decrease in tension between the political authorities and the
Sufis as a w hole at the time.56 Indeed, throughout Iran t here w ere Sufis
who were now under the protection of local Qajar leaders, even “sharing
them” at times with rival jurists or other Sufis.57
The final influential qotb from that era was known as Mast Ali Shah.
Mast Ali Shah differentiated himself from his predecessors in two ways:
(1) he was not a jurist, nor had he received much seminary training at all,
and (2) he traveled extensively during his life, spending some thirty years
in India, Turkey, and the Kurdish regions, speaking with many sheikhs
and sages of various religions and creeds.58 As a result, most of his writings
are in fact travelogues (siyahat name) rather than treatises.59 As such, while
on the one hand Mast Ali Shah was known for his open-mindedness, given
his conversations with disparate groups of p eople throughout the world, in
Iran he was often critical of the Shi‘i jurists and “exterior sciences,” declar-
ing that any scholar who disregarded “interior Shi‘ism,” that is, Sufism, was
not fit to be a leader on the path.60 As an outcome of these public declara-
tions, he perhaps unsurprisingly faced much more persecution than his
predecessors, given his vocal criticism of the Shi‘i authorities.
Ultimately, the late Qajar era marked the time when Sufi orders were
in the most direct conversation, and at times heated debate, with the Shi‘i
ulama. In addition, given the decentralized nature of the Qajar state, there
were times Sufis closely aligned with local leaders, as in Kerman and other
regions. In one instance, the alliance was such that an order was given the
title of “peacock order” or “gnostics of the peacock” (tavus-ol urafa),61 with the
peacock being the symbol of the monarchy. Alessandro Cancian has also
written that, although the order generally advocated for political quietism,
48 Chapter One

certain early twentieth-century qotbs of the Nimatullahi Gonabadi Order
encouraged their faithful to consider political activism.62 Following this
era, however, never again would the Sufis be so deeply engaged with both
state and clerical power, at least in this explicit a fashion. Finally, as a result
of the localized nature of Sufi practice at the time, the Nimatullahi Order
fractured into many different subsets, resulting in the dozen or so o rders
that all claim lineage to it today.
Inside and Outside: The Nimatullahis during

the Pahlavi Regime
Following the rise to power of the military commander Reza Shah Pahlavi
in the early 1920s and the subsequent centralization of power, many Ni-
matullahi Sufis largely retreated from openly engaging with political life, as
many of their previous benefactors w ere no longer in power. In addition,
Reza Shah’s dismantling of the Shi‘i clergy’s religious institutions undoubt-
edly proved a motivating factor for the Sufis to step away from engaging
in the public sphere in an organized and deliberate fashion. This is not to
say that they were not involved and in dialogue with figures of social and
political authority, merely that that was done on a much more individual-
ized level. As such, the o rders became more self-contained and structured
at this time.
For the scope of this project, I will highlight only a few instances that
were key to the development of the Nimatullahi Order during the Reza Shah
Pahlavi era (1925–41). The first is the reorganization of the system of Sufi
practice. Essentially, the Nimatullahis partially drew away from the master-
disciple/teacher-student (pir-morid) structure at this time, leaving a less for-
mal (rasmi) structure in its place. In addition, under the leadership of the
qotb Saleh Alishah (1891–1966), the order increased in number and repu-
tation, drawing not only more followers but also more patrons to them, as
several members of the local aristocracy were also said to have joined. At this
time, they w ere said to number around forty thousand,63 a huge number.
With this increase in funds, they initiated a number of public works proj
ects, especially in the small city of Gonabad, where the order had a large
following. These works included the founding of a library, the Ketabkhane-ye
Soltani, a hospital, an adult literacy and education program, and the con-
struction of water canals (qanats).64

This increase in size and public activity did not go unnoticed, attract-
ing the attention of none other than the monarch himself. According to
my interlocutors, while Reza Shah was not antagonistic to the Sufis ini-
tially, he became suspicious a fter they had grown substantially in popu-
larity. The minister of culture, Ali Asghar Hekmat, paid an official visit
to the order to ensure that they were not “smoking opium, and bribing
judges.”65 Upon receiving reassurance that they were not engaged in il-
licit activities, Reza Shah demanded a text outlining the basic tenets of
the Nimatullahis.
What resulted was Saleh’s Advice (Pand-e Saleh), which remains to this
day one of the foundational texts of the Solantalishahi Gonabadi Nimatul-
lahi Order. If you enter any library or bookstore of a Solantalishahi meet-
ing place (khaneqah) and say that you know nothing of mysticism but wish
to learn, this is one of two texts they w ill hand to you. Saleh’s Advice has
been translated into various languages and, as w ill be further elaborated
upon in chapter 2, is available for f ree online. It is significant to note, then,
that one of the most widely read writings by an Iranian Sufi in the twen-
tieth century came into being as a result of the state’s inquiry into con
temporary mysticism.
Despite Reza Shah’s comparatively lenient view t oward mystical o rders,
there w ere many intellectual and clerics at this time who denounced Su-
fism vehemently, describing it as antithetical to the project of modernism.
The most vocal and vociferous of these critics was of course the public
intellectual Ahmad Kasravi, who, in his texts entitled simply Sufism and
Shi‘ism, decried both modes of Islamic thought and their “evil teachings,”66
and accused them of promoting factionalism rather than a strong central-
ized state. Certain other intellectuals and writers at the time, including
Sadeq Hedayet, Ali Dasti, and Tariq Arani, also looked down upon Su-
fism, although more for what they called its antisocial behavior and charla-
tanism, and considering more the begging darvish than organized orders.
Within the clerical establishment, Ayatollah Seyyed Hossein Borujerdi
was perhaps the most vocal opponent to both Sufism and erfan.
At this time, t here w
ere of course other Sufi o rders active within
Iran—including others that claimed Nimatullahi lineage—and a number
of these remained more immediately involved with the monarchy, espe-
cially during the reign of Mohammad Reza Shah, the son and successor of
Reza Shah. In particular, the Safialishahi claimed the interest of Moham-
mad Reza Shah’s younger brother Ali-Reza, and his twin sister Princess
Ashraf was instrumental in the opening of a meeting place (khaneqah)
50 Chapter One

for the Zahir od-Dowle Order.67 Finally, Shahbanou Farah Diba, the em-
press of Iran, who spent vast amounts of royal funds promoting the arts,
literature, and cultural heritage projects throughout the country,68 funded
the Imperial Iranian Academy of Philosophy. This academy was headed
by the philosopher Seyyed Hossein Nasr and the famed orientalist Henry
Corbin, who championed a Sufi-heavy, quietist form of Shi‘i Islam.69
Despite t hese instances of royal interest in mysticism, the Nimatullahi
Order remained largely free of royal patronage, and essentially operated
as a self-contained entity within the larger civil society, surviving off of
the financial contributions of its members, both rich and poor. Indeed,
perhaps its greatest influence came in the form of travels by its members to
India, Afghanistan, and Pakistan, visiting with other Sufi orders. As such,
the order remained outside of the reigning political authorities and disin-
terested in public debates until late 1968, with the publication of a particu
lar treatise by the current qotb of the order, Reza Ali Shah.
In what was been described to me as a “sudden gesture,” Reza Ali
Shah began to publicly criticize the government of the Shah in the late
1960s. Most significantly, at the 1968 International Conference on H uman
Rights in Tehran, which was presided over by the Shah’s twin sister, Prin-
cess Ashraf, he presented a paper entitled “Religious Perspectives on
the Human Rights Declaration.” In this paper, he not only criticized the
Universal Declaration of Human Rights as failing to meet its goal but in
particular criticized its lack of Islamic values, saying the values had been
diluted by the “politics of strangers,”70 the disregard for religious holidays
in Iran, the divorce law, the prevalence of indulgence in substances, and,
most strikingly, the influence of Westernization or, as was the popular term
at the time, “Westoxification” (Gharbzadegi).71 Needless to say, it was un-
equivocally the most political and the most oppositional text written by a
Nimatullahi Sufi in decades, and placed the order firmly in the position of
supporting Khomeini and his compatriots. As the Nimatullahi continued
to have sheikhs in their ranks who were also trained jurists, or at least those
who had spent time in the seminary, t here is no doubt that the order’s el-
ders were well aware of the debates that were happening at the time. More
significantly, it has been reported that Reza Ali Shah sent Khomeini a con-
gratulatory letter upon his release from prison in 1964,72 and, as a current
sheikh relayed to me, t here was a brief meeting between Reza Ali Shah and
Khomeini himself in 1978.
Despite Reza Ali Shah’s writings on the Universal Declaration of
Human Rights and his personal overtures to Khomeini, the Sufis maintain

that they have never taken an interest in the political realm. Indeed, when
asked about further involvement with the Islamic Revolution, I was given
no further information, nor was I able to locate any such documents in my
research. Indeed, what was made very clear to me and what I wish to em-
phasize here is that the various instantiations of the Nimatullahi Order do
not possess any interest in politics; neither now, nor in years past.
Sufism in the Islamic Republic
During and immediately following the Islamic Revolution, the Sufis con-
tinued to meet throughout Iran, although in more sporadic fashion given
the disruption caused by the events of the time. After the establishment
of the Islamic Republic, the Nimatullahi Order was able to largely carry
out its activities undisturbed, given its ties to Khomeini and the regime. In
particular, Khomeini’s son Ahmad was said to have strong sympathies for
and ties to the order.
The prime example of anti-Sufi activity occurred on the night of No-
vember 30, 1979,73 some eight months a fter the passing of a referendum
establishing an Islamic republic, when the primary Sufi meeting place
(khaneqah), the Ali Suleiymani Mosque in Tehran, was set on fire in what
was perceived to be an act of arson. The mosque was eventually rebuilt,
but the Sufis are still reluctant to talk about the incident. Van den Bos ex-
presses encountering a similar sentiment in his research surrounding the
incident, noting, “Although I have been unable to ascertain the real course
of events, the fact that . . . silence was melancholic in resignation, deliber-
ately not angry, excludes the reading that has the rhetoric of silence, in any
power context, as a token of resistance.”74
There were reports of events in other areas of the country, in particular
in Gonabad, where local paramilitary (basij) groups had accused the local
order of not having pledged allegiance to Khomeini and the government
of the Islamic Republic. In actuality, Reza Ali Shah had cemented his ties
with Khomeini, and other sheikhs and prominent elders had attempted to
further demonstrate their allegiance by attending the funerals and mourn-
ing sessions of key members of Khomeini’s circle and administration.75 In
addition, the name of the Sufi meeting place, khaneqah, was changed to
hosseiniyeh, or “place of Hossein,” referring to the third Shi‘i Imam, thereby
making very explicit their status as a Shi‘i order.
52 Chapter One

Lack of Legal Clarity
Despite these affiliations and attempts at ingratiation, however, the fact

remains that within the Islamic Republic there is no official policy toward
Sufism or mysticism as a whole, so its practitioners remain neither con-
demned nor condoned by the state.
The ambiguity of their status is made all the more noteworthy because
the Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran does in fact lay out specific
guidelines regarding the status of religious minorities within Iran in Article
13. In its entirety, it states: “Zoroastrian, Jewish, and Christian Iranians are
the only recognized religious minorities, who, within the limits of the law,
are f ree to perform their religious rites and ceremonies, and to act accord-
ing to their own canon in matters of personal affairs and religious educa-
tion,”76 thereby affirming both the recognition of these groups as well as
the rights accorded with such standing.77 The term “only” here is perhaps a
bit misleading, as non-Shi‘i Ja’fari Muslims are also afforded formal recog-
nition.78 Specifically, it is laid out in Article 12:
The official religion of Iran is Islam and the Twelver Ja’fari school, and this
principle will remain eternally immutable. Other Islamic schools, includ-
ing the Hanafi, Shafi’i, Maliki, Hanbali, and Zaydi, are to be accorded full
respect, and their followers are f ree to act in accordance with their own
jurisprudence in performing their religious rites. These schools enjoy of-
ficial status in m atters pertaining to religious education, affairs of personal
status . . . and related litigation in courts of law. In regions of the country
where Muslims following any one of these schools of fiqh constitute the
majority, local regulations, within the bounds of the jurisdiction of local
councils, are to be in accordance with the respective school of fiqh, without
infringing upon the rights of the followers of other schools.79
Thus, we see a direction not only to affirm the position of other Islamic
schools of thought, but to carry out “local regulations” in compliance with
the appropriate jurisprudence (fiqh). The other group that might bear
comparison is the Baha’is, another group that goes unmentioned in the
constitution. Unlike the Sufis, however, the Baha’is have faced consistent
oppressive measures since the inception of the Islamic Republic,80 a fact
that is said to be due to their association with British imperialist forces,81
as well as the members’ more “radical” idea of their founder as a form of
messianic figure. Moreover, within the founding documents of the Islamic

Republic there exist myriad examples of negative opinions by state officials
of the Bahaʼis, while no such comparative paperwork regarding Sufism is
said to exist.82
As there exists no litigation currently in place or any active campaign on
the part of the Sufis to achieve some form of formal recognition, it would
be unfair to say even that they exist in a state of limbo, as such a state sug-
gests a form of waiting and anticipation. To be in limbo implies that there
is an end point that should have been reached, but one is instead caught
in a space that was always meant to be transitory, and hence the increasing
discomfort for those whose stay in it grows increasingly difficult the longer
they occupy it. As the experience of the transitory undergoes its unnatural
metamorphosis into that of permanence, t hose in limbo become increas-
ingly uneasy in their experience of waiting, as if watching time being held
hostage. In contrast, t here is no anticipatory feeling among the Sufis, as
theirs is not a problem with an explicit temporal dimension. Indeed, the
question of their legal recognition is not even specifically addressed, but
is rather evaded.
One might suggest at this point, however, that “evaded” is perhaps too
strong a term. In most cities, the Sufi meeting places, the khanegahs and
hosseiniyehs, are not only actively used but their status as part of a vaghf,
or their status as part of a larger religious endowment, where some sort of
charitable donation, most typically land, is made to a religious institute,
is still being honored. So, the vaghf-nameh, the document of entitlement,
or the deed, so to speak, allows the land and the buildings used upon it to
remain in Sufi hands, and this is the most striking legal indicator of the
position of organized mysticism within Iran.83 Since the Islamic Revolu-
tion, perhaps the biggest obstacle they have faced has come in the form of
publication and circulation of texts and sermons. Essentially, when one be-
came too popular, someone from the Ministry of Culture (Ershad) would
intervene, bestowing a strongly worded cease-and-desist order in the form
of a human messenger.
Over the past five years, however, t here has been an unfortunate and
noted increase in the harassment of Sufi o rders by local governments,
primarily in the form of the closure or “discouragement” of large meet-
ings. As such, the Sufis’ avowed disinterest in asserting themselves in the
sociopolitical sphere has been tested as of late, and has caused, if nothing
else, more particul ar strategizing. I do not delve further into these recent
events at the request of my interlocutors.
54 Chapter One

Instead, at this point I would like to go into more detail about the cur-
rent routines, rituals, and manners of a Nimatullahi Sufi Order in Iran
today. In this way, we might be able to understand the order’s operations in
greater depth, viewing it not only through the lens of the larger sociopoliti
cal realm but also as its own more self-contained and autonomous entity.
Scene from a Meeting
On holidays the space is always more crowded, as devotees from out of

town use the opportunity to come to see the qotb, and today is no excep-
tion. At 6 a.m., a handful of men and w omen, t hose who are more active
in the organization, will come and open the doors, give the space a quick
cleaning, dusting carpets and setting out a few chairs, and brew tea and
arrange dates or pastries to distribute. The crowds begin to gather around
6:45 a.m., with the qotb scheduled to speak at 7:30.
The meeting place is a two-story h ouse on a quiet, tree-lined street in an
upper-middle-class suburban neighborhood in North Tehran. Originally a
residential property, the h ouse has been used by the Sufis for about fifteen
years and is still a privately owned property with the deed in the name
of one of the prominent families of the order.84 As people file in, several
men stand outside and keep a lookout, for any “government types” (yeki
az dowlat) or “busybodies” (fozul),85 they say. Upon entering, women are
handed a chador, although most are already wearing them. These are not
the typical sweeping, black variety, however, but colorful, lightweight, thin
cotton sheets in colors from pink to brown, decorated with small polka
dots and intricate floral patterns. As is the case with all mahdaviyes, the
space is gender-segregated, with the women upstairs and the men on the
first floor. The darvish find seats on the floor, older folks sit in chairs or
against the wall, and the rooms fill up quickly.
It’s a warm day in early autumn, and the temperature rises as more and
more people pack into the space. Sure-footed servers step gingerly between
the p eople, balancing trays, bending down to offer their teas and sweets,
navigating the crowded room and forming crooked paths as they weave
around the seated faithful. The servers’ smiles break the atmosphere of se-
rious anticipation. Most attendees enter quietly, often with a companion
or two, although occasionally people will recognize one another, quickly
stringing together a number of salutations:

“Salam, how are you? Are you well? God willing everything is well.”
No one ever waits for an answer.
A few, however, stand and greet each other with a special handshake,
unique to the Sufi order, involving clasping and kissing of the hands. If you
wish to submit a question to the pir too, you must speak with one of these
women who has clearly mastered the aforementioned handshake.
This session (jalaseh) will take place in two parts: first, the pir will de-
liver a sermon that w ill last for twenty or thirty minutes. Following this,
he w ill privately read a number of questions that have been written down
on paper. He will then respond to the men’s questions, staying downstairs
among the men while the women listen to his responses upstairs. The men
will then leave and go outside the building, and all the w omen w ill come
downstairs and the pir will respond to their questions.
In order to submit a question, one must write it down and seal it in an
envelope. On the outside of the envelope, a particular line of poetry must
be written in order for the question to be accepted.86 In addition, the ques-
tion must also be written in the proper format, meaning it must be clearly
directed to the pir and possess the proper honorifics before his name. If
the questioner is illiterate, they must speak to one of the helpers before
the session. Usually, there are no more than a dozen questions submitted
in one session.
But first: the sermon. And now the room is so densely packed that the
floor is no longer visible, p eople perched on windows and standing in the
doorway. A stereo system has been set up so that the pir speaks into a mi-
crophone, amplifying his frail voice and broadcasting to both upstairs and
downstairs. The men stand as he enters, but quickly sit down. The w omen
know the sermon is about to begin from the noise coming from down-
stairs, sounds of shuffling and shifting around, punctuated by cries of “Ya
Ali!” and “Ya Hazrat Agha!”87
The pir begins the sermon. His speech quickly reveals a person of ad-
vanced age, with a rasping voice that breaks and is often strained, a sound
creased with auditory wrinkles. He occasionally draws long breaths as if
coming up for air. Because of its fragility, his voice offers not a stern au-
thoritarianism, but a gentle earnestness, as if he has run a long way to tell us
something, and needs to tell us no m atter how exhausted. Still, despite the
tired quality of his voice, the assured and measured cadence of the speech
is undeniable. He speaks extemporaneously, a storyteller of the highest
order, weaving together the central themes of his sermon with narratives
of sheikhs long gone, excerpts of mystical poetry, and passages (ayas) from
56 Chapter One

the Qur’an. The tone is pedagogical and steady, his speech peppered with
questions and delivered in simple colloquial language so that all may be
able to comprehend. And again the voice, so fragile as to give it an air of
vulnerability.
As he speaks, a handful of women begin to cry. While some do so qui-
etly, tears rolling silently down their faces as they rock back and forth,
others end up sobbing loudly by the sermon’s end, their shoulders shaking
up and down as even their bodies are overtaken by grief. This outpouring
of deep emotion is typical of Sufi gatherings: Regardless of the content
of the sermon, although perhaps more frequently when recounting tragic
stories during holidays of mourning, p eople w ill begin to cry. Perhaps they
are mourning some tragedy in their lives, perhaps they are moved by the
words of the pir, or even just his presence, perhaps they have gone into hal;
whatever the reason, it is not unusual to do so.
After the pir concludes, everyone recites the salavat prayer out loud.
There is some shuffling about, and a brief pause of several minutes. Down-
stairs, he is reading the men’s questions, silently, and to himself. A
fter he is
done, he begins again.
He still speaks with the microphone so that the women may listen up-
stairs. The questions are answered in the form of another sermon, the vari
ous inquiries and appeals for advice blended into a seamless act of oration,
figure 1.1 Imam Ali birthday (moludi) celebration in a khaneqah,

unnamed for anonymity.

as though reading a monologue. Even though the rest of the darvish have
not read the questions, it is not difficult to discern the topics that are being
addressed by the pir’s response. Inquiries about college admittance, perfor
mance on exams, health and healing, and even romantic inquiries are all
addressed. When he concludes, the names of those whose questions were
not addressed are read, and they are instructed to come to a more private
meeting to be held later in the week, at a similarly early hour.
Following this, it is the women’s turn. The men leave the house. Having
all the occupants of the densely crowded upstairs slowly make their way
down the narrow staircase, only to refile into the downstairs room, takes
time. P eople both stand and sit, knowing they w ill spend less time here,
and arrange themselves messily. Some w omen complain about not being
able to see, o thers speak in harsh tones to one another, a third intervenes:
“This is not a place for fighting.” Crying continues.
The pir is seated on a sturdy armchair in the front of the room. His hair
is thick and white as snow, he wears a robe (abeh) but not a turban (am-
mameh).88 After the pir has finished addressing the women’s questions,
those whose inquiries went unanswered are directed to come to another
meeting. Then he slowly gets up to leave, first leaning forward before pull-
ing himself up.
The w omen begin to get excited, and reach out to touch him, even as
they part ways to clear a path for him. Suddenly p eople convene quickly
around the chair, crowding around, dragging their hands across it as if to
feel the presence he has left b ehind. Others grab bits and pieces he had
with him—a tissue is pocketed, as is a napkin and the plastic tea cup.
Others roll their eyes at this activity. There are muffled sobs now, others
praying furtively under their breath, wishing good health and good fortune
for the elderly holy man, watching as he holds his thin cloak around him as
he makes his way out, as slowly as he came in. . . .
58 Chapter One

2 Unknowing of Text,
Unknowing of Authority
ere were two of them. My sheikhs, that is. But of course, they were
Th
not properly my sheikhs; as in they were not my spiritual guides,
but rather two of my most generous interlocutors. I was fortunate
enough to meet a number of sheikhs during my time researching this
project, but with these two the meetings were different, in terms of
both time spent and the depth of our discussions. And so, they be-
came my sheikhs.
They live in different cities and do not know each other. I w ill
refer to them as Sheikh Noroozi and Sheikh Alizadeh. Both men
have their own circle of local, mixed-gender followers with whom
they primarily meet to discuss Persian-language poetry, but they also
make themselves available to offer advice for whoever wishes to con-
sult with them.
They are examples of leaders of the localized, congregation-
like reading circles (doreh) that are very popular throughout Iran.1
Sheikh Noroozi has been convening his doreh in his home for about
twelve years, and Sheikh Alizadeh has been holding his in a meeting
place of one of his devotees for about seven years. More importantly
for the purposes of this project, they both identify as darvish, even
though they are currently not part of any larger order.
Neither of them has any formal religious training, although
Sheikh Alizadeh, a civil servant for some forty years, grew up in a
devout f amily, his grandfather and great-grandfather were both cler-
ics, and he memorized the Qur’an as a boy. Sheikh Noroozi is an
engineer by training, and received a master’s degree in his subfield. In the
1970s, he was initiated into a Sufi order in his city that ceased meeting at
the onset of the Iran-Iraq War and never reconvened. The title of “sheikh”
was thus not bestowed upon either by a more senior authority figure, but
by their followers. Neither remembers exactly when they began to be re-
ferred to as such.
Based on extended conversations with both sheikhs, this chapter traces
the relationship between text, authority, and hermeneutics. For the Sufis,
as for many Muslims, spiritual authority is directly tied to textual authority.
Textual authority, in turn, is derived from the ability to provide informed
and insightful interpretations of those written materials that provide es-
sential guidance on the cultivation of the soul and transformation of the
self. According to Sheikh Noroozi and Sheikh Alizadeh, however, this au-
thority is complicated by their particular understanding of the nature of
the text and the limitation of the human intellect in light of the supreme
capabilities of the inner heart.
Regarding the former, both sheikhs approach interpretation not as a
means to discern answers, but to reveal a further layer of questions that are
contained with the text. In d oing so, they make apparent to their followers
the endlessness of the text, such that each passage, each phrase, and even
a single word can contain a multiplicity of ideas and arguments. The Sufis
thus adhere to an interpretative framework for understanding poetry that
mimics their idea of knowledge as an exercise without limit or finality. And
while many, many commentators might share this understanding of poetry,
and certainly the Qur’an, as possessing an endless cosmos of ideas, what is
unique here is how the sheikhs see this as a limitation on their authority, as
if in doing so they affirm the text will always elude human understanding.
Another key idea that impacts their stance as authority figures is the
sheikhs’ belief in the capabilities of the heart as a guide. What is meant
by “heart” is a topic that could fill a thousand pages, and in a way it is
terrible to distill it down to shorthand, but for our purposes h ere I w ill
define the heart as the site of a form of knowledge that cannot be learned
from a book or a teacher (solely), but from intimate experience with the
divine, through an awareness of non-knowledge. Known by many names,
such as the “abode of the light of faith,”(nur al-iman), the “abode of the
light of gnosis,” (nur al-ma‘rifat), and the “secret of divine knowledge,”
(sir-e ma‘rifat), to privilege the heart as guide is to privilege (1) each indi-
vidual’s relationship with God, as difficult as it may be to access, over the
teachings of an earthly guide; and (2) a form of knowledge that is more
60 Chapter Two

experiential than learned. What complicates m atters, however, is that the
forms of knowledge—learned and experienced—are of course intimately
related, such that it is said to be nearly impossible to learn to access this a
priori, esoteric knowledge without a teacher. It is for this reason (among
many others) that there is such reverence for the teacher within the Sufi
tradition, a topic that w ill be discussed l ater in this chapter. The teacher is
no less than the means through which one may become in union with God
(tawhid). What sets t hese two sheikhs apart, however, is their insistence
on their own limitations, an observation that causes melancholy in Sheikh
Noroozi and delight in Sheikh Alizadeh.
This chapter explores the relationship between learned knowledge and
divine knowledge, between text and authority, and between language and
the self. How is each pair constituted and disassembled through one an-
other? How is authority understood for these two sheikhs, and what is the
epistemological basis for the perceived limits of their own knowledge? In
what way does their hermeneutic stance undo the boundaries of their own
authority? Finally, what is the relationship between self, teacher, and the
ambiguities of poetic verse, and how might such a relationship lead to more
intimate knowledge with the divine, and especially its unknown elements?
Sheikh Noroozi and the Text without End
I had a list of questions, prepared interviewer that I was. Th ese questions

varied from person to person of course, but t here w ere a few constants,
including the following query I posed to almost all my interlocutors: How
does one become a Sufi? While I received a wide variety of responses to
this, almost all mentioned at least one simple fact: you must read.
Not a surprising response, given the tradition with which we are deal-
ing, but the significance of reading cannot be emphasized enough. To gain
initiation into a Sufi order, to further progress on the mystical path (tariqa)
to tawhid, or simply to become familiar with the topic, you must read. The
path to tawhid, it seems, is one lined with books.
Which texts must be read? The Qur’an, Nahj Al-Balaga (the sermons of
Imam Ali), and of course mystical philosophies and poetry—mainly but
not exclusively Persian poetry. Ibn Arabi was the favorite non-Persian poet,
often read in translation but sometimes in the original Arabic by those who
were able. Th
ese are works that are not dissimilar to what millions of Ira
nians read, many on a daily basis, or with which they are at least familiar.
Unknowing of Text, Unknowing of Authority 61

In addition to what must be read, the other question, and of greater
interest to us h ere, is how one must read. And so I asked Sheikh Noroozi:
What is the best way to read poetry?
He told me, “You must read and re-read. Read and read again. In this
way reading is like a form of zekr [a meditative act of remembrance, re-
calling]. I recommend reading it through all at once, then line by line, as
slowly as you need, then reading the whole thing in its entirety again. Some
people think you should not read it all at once first, because there may be
words you d on’t know and [you] may be confused, but I think the confu-
sion is not something you should try to avoid.”
“What is beneficial about the confusion?”
“First of all, for humility. Sometimes we become overly confident when
we have been reading for some time. You must never become too comfort-
able or too prideful when you read in the presence of genius! Second of all,
it is better to have a sense of the entire scheme of the poem so that, even
unconsciously, you w ill be able to understand the individual lines [bayt-
ha] more fully. You will have a better idea of where the line will fit into the
poem as a whole.”
“What do you mean you might understand ‘unconsciously’?”
Here, Sheikh Noroozi smiled: “Your inner heart [ghalb] w ill know
the meaning before your intellect [aql] does. It contains the unconscious
knowledge your mind wishes to obtain.”
“Is it better to read in groups, on your own, or with a teacher?”
“All are beneficial.”
“Yes, but I thought reading with a teacher is always the best way.”
Sheikh Noroozi paused. “It depends on the teacher, it depends on the
group. It is highly beneficial to read poems together, highly beneficial, as
long as everyone’s heart is pure [ghalb-e pak]. In other words, that their
intentions for reading poetry w ere true, which in this context means that
they w ere not reading for reasons of ego or any other reason outside of
their desire to enrich themselves with the knowledge necessary to become
closer to God.”
“Because otherwise they might lead you down the wrong path?”
“Precisely. In such instances it is better for one to read on one’s own.”
“And as for the teacher . . .” he trailed off. “That also depends on the
quality of the teacher. Imagine if your teacher was, say, Imam Jafar al-Sadeq
[the sixth Shi‘i Imam].” Sheikh Noroozi’s eyes widened at his own sugges-
tion. “Ah, imagine sitting at the knee of Imam Jafar.” He shook his head
wistfully, as if even dreaming such a thing was too much to comprehend,
62 Chapter Two

to take in. “Then how could you compare reading in a group or by yourself
to reading in the presence of Imam-e Kabir?”
Imam Jafar al-Sadeq, it should be noted, died in ad 765, long before
most of the great medieval poets had taken up their pens. And so, not only
did Sheikh Noroozi imagine himself in the presence of the great Imam,
but he brought him literature from the future to read together: collections
of verse that, in certain cases, were directly or indirectly influenced by this
most esoterically oriented of the Shi‘i Imams.2 If only we had the tafsir of
Imam Jafar, not only of the Qur’an, but his interpretations of Attar and
Hujwiri, his intellectual descendants, how wonderful that would be, per
Sheikh Noroozi.
“So, reading alongside a teacher is the best form of reading?”
He paused again.
“I know the right answer is yes, reading with a pir is the best way. And I
do believe and accept that, for the absolute novice, this is the proper way
to learn to read.” He said this last sentence emphatically and deliberately,
but began his next cautiously: “But, t here comes the moment when it is up
to the individual person [fard] to unveil the text to themselves, to discover
the secrets [sirr] of the text.”
My curiosity was piqued at this observation, and so I asked: “Is it then
that someone becomes a sheikh themselves? When they can no longer
learn from a teacher?”
“No, no, you don’t have to be a sheikh to learn more from your own
reading of poetry than reading with a teacher. After being introduced to
what texts to read—which in any case is not that surprising, many learned
people w ill tell you—and some introduction on the path [tariqat], it
is your inner heart, your third eye, that is the best teacher. Unless your
teacher is a vali [saint].”
With this statement, Sheikh Noroozi has given us his take on the
centuries-old tradition of the pir-murid (teacher-student) relationship that
has so often been synonymous with Sufism as a w hole.3 The importance of
the role of the teacher within the project of Sufism, and particularly orga
nized Sufism, cannot be underplayed. Th ese were and are relationships that
can last for years, decades even; in many cases a student’s intellectual world
has been often entirely centered and cemented around his master, not to
mention his material world as well, as mystics often lived together in lodges
(khaneqah) in years past.4 In certain instances p eople, including the founder
of the Nimatullahi Order, Shah Nimatullah Vali, would travel thousands of
miles to find the perfect teacher, with whom they might study for years.

Even for t hose who w ere not full-time pupils—that is, t hose not in
the intimate relationship of the pir-murid—the reverence for their sheikh
could approach levels of saint worship, a tendency that persists to some
degree in the contemporary era. Accusations of cult-like behavior have
sometimes dogged orders due to the zeal with which they have committed
to their teacher-sheikhs.5 While the extent of the devotion is frequently
exaggerated—blind and uncritical obedience is advocated by no one—
and the pedagogical process between teacher and student often simplified,
it is very unusual to see a sheikh’s role diminished in f avor of a lay person’s
own initiative. At stake is not only questions of hierarchy, but what consti-
tutes the ideal guide and teacher. Who or what is it that will best direct us,
influence us, to that which we seek?
In Sheikh Noroozi’s words, it is the “inner heart” (ghalb-e batin) and
the “third eye” that supersede the pedagogical capabilities of the learned
expert. The form of knowledge they are striving to achieve, ma‘rifat, can-
not be learned but only experienced. The typical power dynamic is thus
upended, as he advocates for a more elusive teacher to guide one through
reading a text, one that is both internal and external to oneself:
“Is it not access to the inner heart that we are seeking in the first place?
How can that which we seek be our guide?” I asked.
Sheikh Noroozi smiled. “Ah, see? You have said it yourself! Let that
which you seek lead you on your path. What does your inner heart say
about the words of [the poet] Jami? Your inner heart and the secrets [sirr]
of the text are in conversation; listen to these conversations. They are both
hidden secrets. In this case you read not with your eyes and intellect, but
[with] your unseeing eye.”
I found myself pushing back, and I surprised myself with how defensive
I was. “But when I read with you, I learn things that I wouldn’t have on my
own, and I find that . . . the text becomes a living thing, a living text. Don’t
our reading circles [doreh] and your instruction help us gain access to our
unseeing eye?”
“Of course, my child, I try to teach them in ways that are helpful to you.
There is nothing wrong with imparting information and it is always good
for us to read together and I can only pray that I am helping with your
increased unveiling of the world. But this is not the same knowledge that
is in your heart. Remember what the Qur’an says in Yusef: ‘Above every
possessor of knowledge t here is the One All-Knowing.’ Your heart knows
more than I ever can, especially when it comes to the poetry of the saints.”
64 Chapter Two

“Your heart knows more than I ever can.” Sufism is often characterized as
hierarchical,6 and Sheikh Noroozi is indeed professing a ranking of knowl-
edgeability here. But it is himself, and all the learned expertise that he rep-
resents and all the mystique of the authority figure, that he positions lower
than the “heart” of the lay darvish. While affirming that his guidance is
beneficial, the wisdom he is able to transfer appears unmatched to what
is contained in the knowledge of the heart of the student. So strong is his
belief in the inner heart (ghalb-e batin), that he summons the Surah Yusef
[ Joseph], a favorite surah (chapter of the Qur’an) of Imam Jafar al-Sadeq,
equating the knowledge of the heart with the divine realm. It is the experi-
ential knowledge, that which is most difficult to access and explain, even to
oneself (sometimes especially to oneself), that Sheikh Noroozi prioritizes.
The one caveat to this idea that one’s inner heart is as productive a teacher
(if not more) is only when the teacher is a saint, meaning an Imam or per-
haps one of the great poets (Mawlana as Hazrat); only they could provide
more guidance in textual analysis than the “inner heart.” Barring the return
of the Hidden Imam, it is highly unlikely that any person currently living
will actually encounter any of these saints. Still, in making this exception,
he confirms the classic Shi‘i hierarchy of the Imams and saints as possess-
ing knowledge outside of the realm of the typical human, even one who is
seen as possessing the “light of knowledge.”
Barring his affirmation of the spiritual superiority of the Imams, what is
even more remarkable is Sheikh Noroozi’s insistence that it is “especially”
when it comes to the “poetry of the saints” that he is outmatched. It is
one thing to suggest that, in a general sense, possession of intuitive knowl-
edge is more powerful than a sheikh’s pedagogical skills, that our a priori
(if since lost) sense of being one with God is a stronger guiding force than
a living h uman, but it is something e lse entirely to indicate that, when it
comes to learning from and through texts, one’s own teacher is outranked
by your inner heart.
Contained within Sheikh Noroozi’s self-effacing statement is a very
particular stance concerning Sufi authority and hermeneutics. As is the
case with so many Islamic schools of thought, spiritual authority is derived
from textual authority. For certain mystical circles, the heart of the entire
project of Sufism is comprised of individuals, often in a group, sitting in
physical proximity to a teacher and reading a text under his or her guid-
ance. Textual interpretation is the arena where the authority of the elders
is demonstrated, where their familiarity with unpacking obtuse poetics,

intellectual debates, and Qur’anic references—among other things—is
expressed. While they do offer counsel on a broad array of life matters,
for the circles of Sheikh Noroozi and Sheikh Alizadeh, it is their teach-
ers’ mastery of literary and philosophical knowledge that draws them near,
and we remember the e arlier insistence that to become a Sufi one must
read. There is no order or group of darvish that I encountered in Iran for
whom reading and familiarizing themselves with texts and the ideas con-
tained therein was not absolutely paramount to their ethos and objectives.
Indeed, texts convey not only important content and ideas but also ways
of reading and approaching textuality that challenge our ways of thinking
about the world.
In downplaying his capacity as a textual authority, Sheikh Noroozi is
thus challenging the efficacy of his spiritual authority as a w hole. I would
clarify that this does not make him any less legitimate an authority, given
that he recognizes the benefits of his reading circles, but instead reconsid-
ers the power of learned expertise vis-à-v is the layperson’s intuition and
experience in encountering poetic verse. The category of authority is thus
thoroughly challenged, its traditional parameters unbound and put it into
question, as the unknowability of the text necessitates a requisite unknow-
ing of authority.
After thinking through Sheikh Noroozi’s responses, I returned on an-
other occasion with yet more questions, which he again answered with his
unending patience and gentleness. This time as we spoke he was running
his fingers through his prayer beads (tasbih) and I joked I had tired him out
with my questions. “You must be calling out for patience with your beads!”
I said. He chuckled and replied: “Not at all. It is always nice to speak with
thoughtful youth, especially with a soon-to-be doctor. Besides, what e lse
do I have to do? I can go walk in the park with the other old men whenever
I want.” His tone was grandfatherly and respectful, without the slightest
hint of condescension. We returned to my questions.
“Respected Sheikh, why is my inner heart a greater teacher [pir] than
someone like yourself for understanding texts? I learn so many things dur-
ing our reading circles.” His answer surprised me.
“Because of the nature of the text. And for what we are reading.”
A brief pause, and he continued:
ese texts themselves are already endless. The thoughts contained with
Th
them are absolutely infinite. Each poem is like a gem; you look at it from
a different a ngle and you see light reflected off it in a different way. Each
66 Chapter Two

word is a universe, the history of each word is a universe. You could write
a thesis on the use of the word Ey [a declarative sound, similar in ways to
the “O” of English poetry] in Mawlana, you could write an entire library
around the word rend in Hafez [a notoriously difficult term to translate, the
rend figure is somewhat akin to a rogue or trickster but one who is at times
morally bi-payan, or upright]. And then of course there is the entire collec-
tion! How does one poem relate to another? Should we think of the Divan
as a complete collection or individual fragments [tik-e tik-e]? Understand-
ing the poems of the valis [saints] is a task impossible for a single lifetime.
In fact, the more you read the more exposed you are to the limitlessness of
the text. And so, when I guide you in our readings, I am not looking to give
you the proper answers, but appropriate and beneficial questions. To show
you their endlessness. There is no one interpretation. Sometimes, I’m not
even sure one is better than the other. And so I give you some of my own
ideas that inshallah w ill lead you to your own questions, not my answer.
The best guide is the heart.
A hermeneutics described in poetic language: universes, gems, refracted

light. Sheikh Noroozi, like many before him, turned to metaphor and sim-
ile to best capture the multifaceted and multivalent “nature of the text”:
poetry begetting poetry. According to the sheikh, t hese are verses that
may be approached from literary, philosophical, and philological vantage
points, eluding the capability of any one human to appreciate or compre-
hend them in their totality. If Ibn Arabi has stated that the nature of reality
is unknowable, Sheikh Noroozi seems to indicate that poetry is similarly
enigmatic (perhaps suggesting some overlap with Derridean, Heidegge-
rian, and Wittgensteinian thought, but that is a story for another time).
Of course, there are echoes here of Qur’anic tafsir, where the relationship
between the external meaning (zaher) and internal meaning (batin) can
be traced and deduced in myriad ways. Intriguingly, Sheikh Noroozi did
not use the word “meaning” (ma‘ani/ma‘ana) at all in his response to me,
only “interpretation” (tafsir), as if the subjective “interpretation” was more
appropriate than the more authoritative “meaning.”
And then t here is his assertion that “the more you read, the better you
understand the limitlessness of the text.” In other words, familiarity gener-
ates a greater understanding, but an understanding that your task of fully
appreciating the poems is an impossible one. This is an idea that I find
deeply resonant with broader Sufi theories of ma‘rifat. The text is in a sense
endless, its words able to convey countless ideas that lead to ever deeper

philosophical musings the further one goes in one’s analysis. In this way,
the potential for infinite interpretations of the text mirrors Sufi epistemol-
ogies as a knowledge without limit or end. Both forms of unknowing—
the unknowing of text and the idea of unknowing more broadly—contest
finality, embracing instead the inchoate and still forming.
Moreover, it is his embrace of the idea of the endlessness of the text—
both each individual poem as well as the entire collection—that Sheikh
Noroozi is using to justify his own perceived limitations as a sheikh. It is
due to the “nature of the text,” where each poem is capable of generating
a series of unending permutations, that he sees the inner heart as the su-
perior guide.
What does it mean to think of a teacher as a provider of questions rather
than a purveyor of answers? In some ways, what Sheikh Noroozi is de-
scribing is quite similar to how I set up my own seminars with my students;
I d on’t wish to simply recite my opinions at them but push them to come
up with their own observations and insights. The primary differences here
are that I am a teacher and not a spiritual guide, and what I entreat my
students to do is utilize their intellect to tackle the mysteries of the text in
front of them, not necessarily their inner heart.
This practice may also be seen in pedagogical situations in the Shi‘i
seminaries (howzeh) in Iran, where the Socratic method is frequently em-
ployed, and the ulama-teacher strives for a form of discussion structured
around analyses of highly complex lines of inquiry rather than simply ques-
tions followed by answers.7 How important resolution is, w hether it be
for a specific question or a broader topic, varies from teacher to teacher,
but even for those seminarians who embrace a pedagogical method that
emphasizes pure irresolution, it is unusual for them to argue that the com-
plexities of the topic at hand is a reflection on or somehow speaks to the
limitation of their own authority.
This would seem to be in contrast to the stance of Sheikh Noroozi, who,
in order for his students to access the elusive faculty that is their inner heart,
has embraced a particular pedagogical and authorial stance, one where he
provides paths and points of inquiries for his students rather than a road
map to follow, and emphasizing the capabilities of the inner heart to super-
sede even his own capabilities as teacher. Authority, while still there, takes
on a slightly different color. I am also reminded of his earlier dictum that
“confusion is not something you should try to avoid.” A state of confusion
would seem in line with Sufism’s inclination to embrace and even revel
in disoriented states. Intoxication (metaphorical or otherwise), whirling,
68 Chapter Two

dreaming states; these are all destabilizing phenomena embraced by mys-
tics, experiences that lead to the questioning of the very nature of reality, a
questioning that is key to the entire project of Sufism.
And so, Sheikh Noroozi’s recommendation that his students accept con-
fusion while reading, and all the frustration and discomfort that accompa-
nies it, supports a hermeneutics that is very much in line with broader Sufi
and esoteric Shi‘i epistemologies.8 In other words, it is reflective of a belief
in the generative nature of encounters with the abstruse. It is a reveling in
the “mysterious” aspect of the mysteries of the divine, with the unknow-
ability of the divine. In other words, interpretation is not only a tactic to
uncover a deep meaning or even a better understanding of the material in
question, but a way to affirm the boundless nature of the text itself.
Sitting at his dining table, I took all of this in. At first, I could offer no
follow-up question or g reat insight but merely repeat his last assertion, a
beat more slowly than Sheikh Noroozi had: “The best guide [murshid] is
your heart.”
He nodded slowly and continued: “You must turn to your heart. Even
though that is the most difficult path and the least clear. That is how these
saints wrote, by listening to the inner heart. And so that is the best way to
read and understand.” It is worth considering another of Sheikh Noroozi’s
statements: “That is how t hese saints wrote, by listening to the inner heart.
And so that is the best way to read and understand.” H ere, the reader must
follow the example of the writer. As the saints turned inward to compose
their poetry, so too must we follow a similar methodology to understand
their texts. There is a mirroring between these acts, the act of writing and
the act of interpreting, both of them creative, both of them capable of
being led by the divine knowledge that resides within them. And, as each
takes effort to tap into the world of batin, both lead to the development of
the soul.
We continued our conversation.
“Dear Sheikh, I am embarrassed to ask this question, I feel like I should
know the answer to this by now but . . . how does one read with the heart?”
“Ah, that is not a simple thing at all! Never be embarrassed.”
“I appreciate your patience and guidance.”
“Reading with the heart is learned when you advance on the path. The
more you do this, the greater your access to seeing with the heart, it is all
connected. Ability to see the hidden meaning [batin] in poems and the
Qur’an grows along with your heart. Now your question was how is this
done, which is an excellent question. For most p eople it involves lots of

familiarizing, but not for all. Usually it helps to study under a teacher, es-
pecially in the beginning. But still . . . in some sense, this is a journey that
cannot be taught. At least by me.” He s topped here, and thought for a mo-
ment. He continued: “We have t hese sessions, and they gather and listen
to me, but . . . I should remind them more that they are always their own
ultimate guides. At some point the role of the ostad is less important, and
then not important at all.” Another pause. “[Bayazid] Bistami says, ‘He
who has no master takes Satan as his master,’ but ultimately one’s own self
[khod-e adam] must lead themselves. After some time, the moment comes
when you must read on your own.” Sheikh Noroozi made t hese comments
with a slightly melancholy tone, looking down at his hands. It seemed as
though he wanted to say something more, so I waited for him to continue,
in quiet anticipation.
He smiled a little now. “Sometimes this business of being a sheikh is
something e lse. I keep God close to give me wisdom, inshallah I am being
of help.” He said this with a good-natured, even amused, air of resignation.
Other learned figures I had encountered often voiced expressions of humil-
ity, but those were often stated in a more offhand or perfunctory way, how-
ever genuine. And there were still other authority figures who possessed
a bone-dry sarcasm, throwing out rhetorical queries and caveats: “But of
course, you d on’t need to listen to me,” a fter offering an opinion, more often
than not said as a way of hastening the end of the discussion than as an
admission of their own shortcomings. Sheikh Noroozi, on the other hand,
could not have been more sincere and accepting of his own limitations.
“Your students say you are a blessing to them! You are a wonderful guide
for all.” I felt the sudden need to reassure Sheikh Noroozi, even though he
did not seem to be fishing for compliments in the least. He nodded politely
at my words, but did not seem particularly assuaged.
“They are always too kind, and it is my honor to read with them. But
these masterpieces can only be revealed with the inner heart. That is their
best guide.”
Heavy is the head that wears the crown, or so the saying goes, and hu-
mility is a prized virtue in Islam, one often attributed to Imam Ali in his
initial deference to Abu Bakr as successor to the Prophet. Sheikh Noroozi’s
burden, however, seemed to arise not only from the difficulty of the task
at hand, but from what he perceived to be its fundamentally impossible
nature. He recognizes the necessity of a guide, that embarking upon the
journey of Sufism without one is not only unwise but dangerous,9 but
he believes it is ultimately the pupil’s inner heart that must lead the way.
70 Chapter Two

His authority then, is one that is fundamentally constricted by an episte-
mological conviction that the h uman teacher must ultimately be super-
seded at a juncture or a moment that remains unknown to him.
Sheikh Noroozi’s Students
fter my discussions with Sheikh Noroozi regarding interpretation and his

A
role as sheikh, I began wondering about how his students viewed his in-
struction and guidance. What might it be like to have a teacher so sensitive
to his own perceived limitations? How much was it a part of his pedagogy,
if at all? And so, a fter confirming it would be alright to do so, I discussed
Sheikh Noroozi’s opinion regarding his self-professed “limitations” as
sheikh with those who attended his circles.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, they did not share his opinion, although a few
were reflective about the nature of pedagogy as a w hole. Having witnessed
the respect and affection that they held for their sheikh, I attempted to craft
my questions carefully, in order to avoid leading questions like, “Sheikh
Noroozi downplays his own expertise. What do you think?” Instead, I
asked: “I was speaking with Sheikh Noroozi, and he discussed how the
inner heart can be a greater guide for his students than he can ever be, es-
pecially when it comes to the interpretation of poetry. What do you think
about this idea?”
Zainab, a thirty-eight-year-old insurance agent, laughed heartily at my
question: “Come on now [boro baba]! I wouldn’t even know I had an ‘inner
heart’ without the sheikh! How can you learn something new without a
teacher? It’s because of him that I have become interested in these things.” I
contemplated playing devil’s advocate h ere, arguing that the sheikh would
say it was her inner heart that probably led her to seek mysticism in the
first place, but I thought that might be overstepping my role as interviewer.
Nahid, a forty-two-year-old homemaker, smiled when I told her of her
teacher’s deflections. “But see?” she said. “This is exactly what makes him
a true arif! He has no arrogance at all, despite all of his learning. Some of
these other ruhani [clergy; interesting that she referred to him as such], all
they want to do is find an audience and feel self-important. But not our
sheikh, he is much too humble, and that is that proof that makes him a true
man of God. He has a pure heart [ghalb-e pak].”
Mostafa, a forty-eight-year-old shopkeeper, agreed: “He is only being
modest! But then again, maybe he really believes it. A real leader is one

who does not want to take on the role or thinks he is not worthy, like
Imam Ali.”
“In English, we say ‘reluctant hero’ or ‘hesitant hero’ (ghahreman-e bi-
mayl or ghahreman-e moradad).” I offered both terms, not sure of the best
translation in the moment.
Mostafa laughed. “It’s funny to think of Sheikh Noroozi as a hero
[ghahreman] like Rostam,” he noted, referencing the mythical strongman
of the epic Shahnameh. “But why not? He is a mystical hero [ghahreman-
e darvishi]! His Zulfiqar [the legendary sword of Imam Ali] is the truth
[haqiqat]!” Clearly, Mostafa saw his sheikh as following in the tradition of
this most beloved of Shi‘i figures.
Nima, who is thirty-four years old and works in gold commodities, re-
flected on the nature of the role of the guide as a w hole: “Of course Sheikh
Noroozi is supremely well-informed [vared] and has a g reat skill in teach-
ing others. I have to say, however, that’s a very interesting statement [harf-e
jaleb] he makes. You reach a stage where you develop more without the
sheikh than with them, I suppose.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about that stage?”
“Well, it’s when . . . you realize that have to stand on your own two feet.
When the sessions no longer make you think.”
“Do you think it is when you feel ready to become a sheikh yourself?”
“No, I d on’t think you have to become a sheikh necessarily. Not every
one is interested in teaching and working with students. And I think only
you can decide when y ou’ve reached that stage. It is a station on the path,
so it is something between a thought [fekr] and a feeling [hess]. When you
have reached that, or think you have achieved that, that is when you can
grow without a teacher.”
According to Nima, one can outgrow their own guide, reaching a stage
of enlightenment where working with one’s master is no longer useful or
thought-provoking. What sets Nima’s thinking apart from other Shi‘i or
Sufi theories of hierarchy is that it is the pupil, and not the master, who
determines when they have reached this stage. It is a “realization,” “some-
thing between a thought and a feeling” that one must obey and listen to
rather than a designation from an authority figure. Nima highlighted the
difficulty in discerning t hese moments as well, stating that it is “when you
have reached that stage” or when you “think you have achieved that” stage
(emphasis mine). What is the difference between reaching enlightenment
and thinking you have reached enlightenment? To trust in such a differ-
ence, as Nima does, suggests a belief in enlightenment as an ontological
72 Chapter Two

reality, and one that is not necessarily easy to know if you have achieved. (I
emphasize again this is his interpretation, and is not necessarily reflective
of canonical discourses). What is interesting, however, is that whether you
have achieved enlightenment or merely think you have, both are instances
where, according to Nima, you may remove yourself from the shadow of
the teacher.
Nusrat, a fifty-eight-year-old accountant, also mused about the nature
of pedagogy in the history of erfan. After affirming Sheikh Noroozi’s exper-
tise, she noted, “I think certain people might benefit from a teacher more
than others. Also, the nature of the relationship can vary so much. For ex-
ample, isn’t Shams always Rumi’s teacher? Even after he [Shams] leaves
[Rumi]?10 But in that way, his teacher is also his beloved, no? Whereas I
don’t think Hafez ever thought of his teachers in that way, or his poetry
doesn’t reflect that at least.” She paused for a moment. “But what Rumi and
Shams had was so unique. And Shams was perhaps not the typical master.”
“Ah, that is very interesting. And in the past, so many traveled for so long
to find just the right teacher, no?” I offered. “Shah Nimatullah Vali himself
traveled all the way from Damascus to find his master. It is such a special
relationship.”
“But I still think what Rumi and Shams had was different,” Nusrat coun-
tered. “Shams came to Rumi, not the other way around. And of course
everyone has g reat affection for their teacher, and the teacher for their stu-
dents. But that is different from being a beloved.”
Nusrat is of course correct. In her responses to me, she makes a case
for the varied nature of the pir-murid relationship and argues that some
may benefit from it more than others. She cites perhaps the most famous
master-disciple pair in all Sufi literature, if an unconventional one: Rumi
and Shams. For Rumi, mysticism begins and ends with Shams; he is muse,
teacher, and beloved all in one. His entire spiritual being is inseparable
from his love for his master. Then you have Hafez, who, perhaps partially
because we have little historical evidence about his early years, has no
teacher at all as part of his lore. In highlighting how individuals have dispa-
rate experiences with their masters, Nusrat is not devaluing the role of the
teacher, but suggests that it is not a universal experience, and much of it is
contingent upon the needs of the particular student as well. This speaks to
the individuated nature of the mystical path.
I returned to Sheikh Noroozi and told him that his students didn’t be-
lieve him. He smiled, but seemed unconvinced. “They are only being kind.
Clearly, I have much to teach them!” Despite his belief in the limitations of

the teacher when compared to the human heart, evidently there were still
forms of wisdom he could convey to them.
Sheikh Alizadeh and Poetic Verse as a Form of Exegesis
In Iran, it is very common for p eople to quote poetry in casual conver-

sation. It is certainly more common for the older generation to do so,
but happily, at least for t hose of us who enjoy linguistic flights of fancy
and philosophical musings breaking up the banality of everyday prose,
the younger generation is not immune to this tendency. Even so, in a na-
tion of millions who memorize poetry, Sheikh Alizadeh was something
else. Not only was his speech absolutely peppered with quotations from
dozens of writers, but unlike many p eople, he did not change his tone into
the declaratory sing-song of recitation or even slow down his cadence
when inserting lines in the midst of conversation. It was as if he could not
distinguish lines of poetic verse from his own thoughts. While impres-
sive, it often produced a humorous or even somewhat jarring listening
experience.
His wife, Effat, a woman of great wit, would tease him. “He is so dis-
tracted in his thoughts one of these days he’s going to start reciting when
he’s ordering t hings at the supermarket: “Can I have the satl-e mast [yo-
gurt] and ‘The sadness of your love has made me wander in deserts/The
fleeting illusion [havaye bakht] clipped my wings.’ ”11 Verses with two
phrases (bayts) w ere particularly funny to hear as Sheikh Alizadeh would
rush through the two of them without the customary pause in between.
Because I could not identify the writers b ehind the specific verses my-
self (save for the odd classic, which I was very proud to be able to rec-
ognize), I would always ask Sheikh Alizadeh to name the authors he was
citing. So frequently did I ask that the poor fellow started stating the names
of his own accord when in my presence, such as: “At dawn a call came from
the wine-house/Drunken rogue of the tavern arise arise!/Let us fill with
wine one more turn/Before it is destiny that fills our urn. Khayyam,” the
name falling with a gentle thud at the end like a heavy punctuation mark.
He would often wear the long white tunic (dashtdashe) favored by men
in the Gulf Arab nations; it not unheard of to wear it in Iran but still a bit
atypical, especially for ethnic Persians. Effat Khanum would tease him and
say, “Now because he is a seyed he must dress like the Arabs!” I arrived one
74 Chapter Two

day for breakfast. Sheikh Alizadeh was an early riser, often awakening well
before his sunrise prayers.
Over a too-lavish spread of breads, cheeses, jams, boiled eggs, cucum-
bers, walnuts, and sweet tea, we talked about the interpretation of poetry
as a means to achieve tawhid. Effat Khanum joined us intermittently, get-
ting up on occasion to answer yet another phone call from a relation or
friend or to tend to a domestic matter.
I began: “What is the best way to read poetry?”
“You must read knowing the power that is contained within these pages.
Within these writings are holy ideas [fekr-haye moghadas]. You must read
as a way to varnish the heart. You can read for pleasure [lezat] and that is
fine, and you can read for knowledge [elm], and that is good too, but the
best way to read is read so that you gain gnosis [ma‘rifat].” Here, Sheikh
Alizadeh was suggesting reading as a practice that can lead to the trans-
formation of the self through the acquisition of ma‘rifat. Rather than first
remarking upon a particul ar linguistic approach or discussing the proper
training required, his first direction regarding best reading practices was
to mention the intention and objective of the reader, and recognizing the
sacrality and power of the ideas. While the first two are typical of many
injunctions concerning reading,12 the emphasis on the power of poetry is
more typical of Sufi circles where, as we have seen, the elevation of the art
form of poetry is a central tenet of the epistemology.
“What are some of these holy ideas?” I asked. “Or what is it that makes
them holy?” I realized later that he had mentioned that the ideas were holy,
but did not go so far as to classify the texts themselves as holy. The reasons
why are not difficult to discern, as such a classification could inch toward
blasphemy.
“They are holy b ecause they are reflections of the Qur’an through the
pools of water that are the eyes of saints!” his voice boomed. “All t hese
ideas are first in the Qur’an and the sayings [Hadith], then they are put
into the painterly language by the saints. These are the poets’ interpreta-
tion of the Book of God, which is the greatest gift God ever gave to us,
alongside the Prophet and Ahl-e Bayt.”
“So it is a form of tafsir of the Qur’an?”
“Yes, a form of tafsir of the Qur’an.”
Drawing a direct correlation between poetry and the Qur’an, he turns
to equally poetic language to describe the composition of verses: there is
mirroring and reflecting here, and metaphor; the eyes of the saints become

pools of water. In a way it seems as if Sheikh Alizadeh considers poetry as a
form of literary exegesis. According to his description, the Qur’an does not
operate as a form of inspiration or reference point for the poets, but is the
entire source material.
Considering poetic verse as a form of Qur’anic exegesis is unique not only
among Shi‘i scholars or literary scholars but even among Sufis. Of course,
there are innumerable Muslim poets who have been very much engaged with
and draw inspiration from the Qur’an, everything from referencing specific
ayas to exploring broader themes contained therein to thinking through
revelation and much more. Indeed, although the Qur’an famously notes,
“As for the poets, only t hose are lost in error follow them . . . Except those
[poets] who believe and do righteous deeds and remember Allah often and
defend [the Muslims] when they have been wrong.” (26:224–27).13 Since
the earliest days of Islam, when al-Farabi considered the ethics of poetry
and Rabia al-Basra was contemplating her experience with the divine in
verse (at least according to Attar), up until the present day, Muslims have
been reflecting upon the ideas within the Qur’an, their experiences in read-
ing the text, and more, through the poetic form.14 Moreover, t here is a large
corpus of Sufis writing commentaries on the Qur’an (tafsir) that, accord-
ing to some, dates back to the sixth Shi‘i Imam, Jafar al-Sadeq, as the first
esoterically oriented commentary on the Qur’an and, according to others,
especially certain Shi‘is, the writings of the first Shi‘i Imam, Imam Ali.15 In-
deed, Sufi exegesis is typically considered a genre unto its own, 16 including
thinkers like al-Tustari, Maybudi, al-Nabulsi, among many others, which
emphasizes aspects like the external (zaher) and internal (batin) forms of
meaning, hierarchies of meanings, and concepts like the heart (qalb), spirit
(ruh), secret (sirr), multiple planes of reality (malakut), and more.
Thus, t here exists a huge corpus of Sufi poetry which examines the
Qur’an, as well as a large corpus of Sufi commentaries on the Qur’an
(tafsir), but Sheikh Alizadeh’s categorization of poetry as Qur’anic exege-
sis (tafsir) itself is certainly unique, and brings up compelling questions
regarding genre. Who decides what literary form Qur’anic exegesis may
take? How closely must they hew to the text itself in their commentary?
Within a Shi‘i context at least, t hose who may decide upon such m atters
are the ayatollahs and g rand ayatollahs in Qom and Najaf. I think it is safe
to say that most spiritual authority figures would distinguish between po-
etry and commentary; tafsir is tafsir and poetry is poetry. Even those aya-
tollahs who carry out tafsir and compose poetry, like Ayatollah Khomeini,
would be very unlikely to conflate the two.
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What Sheikh Alizadeh is suggesting h ere, then, is a pushing of bound
aries and blurring of genres. Moreover, at stake is also the potency of the
spiritual authority of the poets; positing them as writers of exegesis as op-
posed to “simply” poetry, already a highly revered form, increases their role
as murshids and, to use Sheikh Alizadeh’s word, saints (vali). While other
Iranian Sufis consider figures like Sa‘adi and Attar as saints and key fig-
ures in their chains of succession (silsile), they do not consider their poetic
work exegetical. Writing a commentary on the Qur’an is an endeavor and
accomplishment that provides the evidence that one may be considered
a spiritual authority in any number of schools of jurisprudence (fiqh). In
positing their work as such, Sheikh Alizadeh is reconsidering the poets
as Qur’anic scholars, bestowing upon them a more traditional basis for
spiritual authority, and reaffirming the importance of exegetical work
for mystics. In other words, it is a recategorization with consequences for
considerations of genre and authority both textual and spiritual, because
by considering poetry as exegesis it is giving power to the mystical epis-
temologies contained within such texts. If non-knowledge challenges the
boundaries of self-contained thought, here we see a challenge to the ques-
tion of genre.
Sheikh Alizadeh’s Hermeneutics: Interpretation without End
“What is the best way to interpret poetry?”

“Oh, a thousand ways to interpret! A hundred thousand ways!”
“Of course, you are right, but are t here certain techniques or paths
[ra-ha] you prefer or recommend?”
“Well, first you must understand what interpretation is. Before you
asked me, what is the best way to read, then you asked what is the best way
to interpret? I am not sure they are different things when you read such
poetry. You see, we know that the Qur’an has internal [batin] and external
[zaher] meanings, so that even an unlearned person can understand the
external meanings. This is so that all people, even those who are illiterate
[bisavad] can understand. But! Poetry is all batin, there is no zaher. Well,
maybe a little. The sounds and rhythms of a recited poem are beautiful
even for those who d on’t understand the words, even for those who do not
know Farsi. Again, like the Qur’an. But poetry is an interpretation or com-
mentary on the hidden elements of the Qur’an. So, we were talking about
interpretation? The best way to interpret is the same way as the best way

to read, b ecause to read is to interpret. Anything beyond the most simple
reading is interpretation.”
“Excuse me if I’ve misunderstood, the goal seems to be to understand
the batin of the Qur’an?”
“Ah, almost! The batin of the Qur’an and the batin of the poem! Mean-
ing to find the batin al-batin! That is what makes it so fun!” He laughed
heartily at this, this search for the secret of the secret. “But there are many
things you can do, t here is not just one destination or path. But batin al-batin
is perhaps most important.”
Let us start backward to unpack this statement. The idea of a “batin al-
batin,” or “inner secret of the inner secret,”17 is a common concept within
Islamic mysticism and for more esoterically minded scholars. The suggestion
is that there exists—in both text and world—a hierarchy and layering of
meaning, sedimentary stratums of mystical knowledge that, as one traverses
them, going ever deeper, one moves ever closer to achieving u nion with the
divine. It is not enough to ascertain the “secret”; the “secret” is not a totality,
but the signaling of the beginning of a journey into ever deeper, ever more
esoteric waters. This idea of a hierarchy of knowledge, one that promises
ever more layers of meaning, is seen throughout Sufi Qur’anic commentary
and in the titles of the esoterically minded treatises beyond Qur’anic com-
mentary, such as Allameh Tabatabai’s The Kernel of the Kernel: Concerning
the Wayfaring and Spiritual Journey of the People of Intellect, or Sheikh Nazim
al-Haqqani’s The Secrets Behind the Secrets Behind the Secrets. As Jamal Elias
explains: “Belief in hierarchical levels of existence and meaning constitutes
an important aspect of Sufi thought, such that existence and existential
truths, texts and divine messages, the h uman body and the visible world,
all are believed to exist on more than one level.”18 Thus, when one is inter-
preting poetry, according to Sheikh Alizadeh, one is interpreting an inter-
pretation of the more hidden (and hence more potent) meanings within
the Qur’an. (As a bit of an aside, it is important to remember that there is a
mirroring too of text and world here, as Elias points out that multiple layers
of meaning constitute not just the Qur’an or texts but existence itself.)
Then, t here is this statement of the sheikh: “Poetry is all batin, t here is
no zaher. Well, maybe a little. The sounds and rhythms of a recited poem
are beautiful even for t hose who d on’t understand the words, even for
those who do not know Farsi. Again, like the Qur’an.”
Again there is the mirroring of the poetry and the Qur’an, such that
the hermeneutics used for the latter may be used for the former as well.
If we follow Sheikh Alizadeh’s dictum that poetry is an interpretation of
78 Chapter Two

the Qur’an, then the writings of the poets are engaged intimately and ex-
clusively with the hidden dimension of the Qur’an which, according to
the sheikh and many o thers, is the more important dimension. Moreover, to
state that “poetry is all batin” is to suggest that the meaning of a poem can
only be ascertained by uncovering its hidden/not-immediately-apparent
aspects; t here is no surface-level meaning. It is as if the poets wished to
honor the esoteric nature of batin ideas by maintaining—perhaps even
leaning into—its arcane quality through their writings. If poetry is to be
considered a form of Qur’anic tafsir, then it would appear that its immedi-
ate goal is not one of the explication of the text, a means of communicating
ideas to readers with clarity, but a form of engagement with sacred mate-
rial where the style also mirrors the content. In other words, the abstruse
nature of poetry is not simply a stylistic choice but the result of reflecting
on equally abstruse content.19 This is not to say that within the genre of
Qur’anic tafsir t here are no writings amongst the millions of pages written
that are as elusive as poetic verse or that all are straightforward elucidations
for a lay audience. Merely that, in this particular instance at least, Sheikh
Alizadeh seems to be highlighting, if not advocating given his enthusiastic
explication, such an approach.
Continuing onward, his mention of zaher is also interesting here in that
he uses it to refer to the aesthetic experience of listening or reading to the
Qur’an or a poem. Typically, zaher refers to passages in the Qur’an that are
more readily apparent. While I do not doubt that he recognizes this aspect
of zaher too—as he explicitly states, “even an unlearned person can under-
stand the external meanings”—in relation to poetry it is the “sounds” of
the poem that he sees as its apparent dimension. The “beautiful” character
of poetry—presumably in recited form—while clearly affective and wor-
thy of praise, is thus seen as a less important aspect, as the batin is always
privileged by mystics.
Finally, t here is his statement that “there are many t hings you can do,
there is not just one destination or path! But batin al-batin is perhaps most
important.” He said the first sentence with enthusiasm and a laugh, as if
there was nothing more exciting than interpreting a text and searching
for meaning in it, and the second with a more matter-of-fact tone and the
slightest air of resignation, as if one should not get too carried away. Still, I
was curious about these “many things” the sheikh had mentioned.
“What are some of these other things you can do?”
“You can practice recitation, learn to become a master (ostad) of [po-
etry] recitation. You can learn calligraphy, and interpret that way. You

can even paint your ideas! There is not only tafsir, even if that is the most
important. You can discuss your tafsir with your friend’s tafsir. Then you
will find something new. That is why we read in groups. If I had any talent
at all I would like to express the text artistically but unfortunately I am a
fool who only knows how to read.”
“Now that is not true.”
“Well, I know how to read and I have the ability to convince some poor
unwitting p eople (badbakhha-ye bichare] that I know what I am talking
about!” Sheikh Alizadeh laughed heartily.
“Now you know this isn’t true! But these are ways of . . . thinking about
the poem, painting and calligraphy, they are also worthwhile endeavors?”
“As long as you are thinking and meditating (zekr) over the writings, it
is worthwhile. The form and appearance of your thinking is not as impor
tant [Form va shekl-e fekrat mohem nist].”
What might be called creative and artistic endeavors by o thers is thus
rendered h ere as an occasion for meditation on a text. Th ere is a form to
thinking, although it is seen as “unimportant” and secondary to the act of
ruminating over the poem. Meaning operates here on synesthetic levels,
able to transfer between different aesthetic modes and vehicles of expres-
sion. It would appear that in this instance it is indeed the message, and not
the medium, that matters.
“You mentioned that tafsir is the most important. But does creating a
painting inspired by a poem teach you different things from interpreting
the words, or . . . working more directly with the words?”
An uncharacteristic pause by the sheikh.
“It’s an interesting question.”
More time passes.
“It depends on the type of tafsir. Let us compare written tafsir and, say,
a painting. Because the tafsir we do in our circles, when I read and teach, is
different. That is not as rich as a commentary.”
“So, not the spoken tafsir, but the written?”
“Yes, the written tafsir. We cannot get to the same inner meaning in
conversing that we do in writing. So, let us compare [written] commentary
and a painting. A commentary uses words to write about words, so per-
haps it is more appropriate. But . . . it depends on the commentary. One
that is poorly written w ill not interest you [here he said literally, bekesh,
‘pulls the reader’], while a very stunning painting might be more illumi-
nating than a poor commentary. . . . It might also depend on the person,
diff erent people have diff erent sensibilities. In India and Pakistan they have
80 Chapter Two

t hose beautiful Qawwalis, which I’ve heard can go on for hours and hours.
Perhaps they are more profound than commentaries, I do not know them
well enough, or perhaps for the Indians it is more profound just for them.”
In comparing different media, Sheikh Alizadeh does not directly ad-
dress my question asking if the different forms teach different things, but
discusses if writing is more effective than painting, noting that “we cannot
get to the same inner meaning.” Except for his statement that writing al-
lows for more depth of thought than communicating orally, he is hesitant
to construct any real hierarchy h ere. Instead, he notes that the efficacy of
these media is dependent upon (1) the quality of the piece, and (2) the
“sensibilities” of the person. There is also an interesting “cultural” dimen-
sion here, if we can call it that, as he observes that the musical genre of
Qawwali may be more “profound” for South Asians. The sheikh allows too
that he is not too familiar with Qawwalis, and that “perhaps they are more
profound” than commentaries, opening up the possibility yet again that
commentaries should not be held up as the most important or most power
ful form of critical engagement with poetry, the best way to find the batin
al-batin, despite his earlier musings that they are the “most important.”
“You mentioned that ‘using words to write about words’ is more ben-
eficial. [I was trying to recall Sheikh Alizadeh’s statement in real time but
misremembered his exact wording. Rather than ‘beneficial’ (mofid) he
actually said ‘appropriate’ (monaseb). Please note my m istake h ere.] Is it
more beneficial for unveiling the secret? What is it that makes it so?”
“This is a very interesting question, I will have to think about it.”
I went for another meeting with Sheikh Alizadeh, this time for after
noon tea. His mood was as jocular and jolly as ever. He seemed excited
to chat, which made me feel at ease before beginning our discussion, a
common occurrence for all visitors who come to his home, I’m sure, given
his good-natured joie de vivre. This time, upon his request, I had sent him
a list of possible topics and questions in advance. I started with a broad
question.
“What kind of knowledge is necessary to best interpret poetry?”
“There are a few areas of knowledge: First, the knowledge of words and
phrases. When Hafez speaks of an eyebrow, sometimes it is an a ctual eye-
brow, sometimes it is something e lse, usually it is both. It is good to know
the history of the words too. Each word is a universe unto itself! I would
love to write, or get a group of writers, to write a Hafez dictionary. You
could make a list of all the terms, find where they are mentioned, in what
poems, what his meaning was when using them.” Knowledge of terms

h ere seems to indicate a familiarity with how they are used in each poet’s
repertoire, whether used metonymically, metaphorically, literally, or some
combination of all three. Such an awareness would also require an under-
standing of the larger meaning of the poem itself, it would seem.
“You mean, you could have an encyclopedia or dictionary where each
concept is listed? And one of these concepts could be eyebrow, another
rend, et cetera.”
“Yes, exactly! Maybe such a t hing exists? I mean, I’m sure someone has
written a thesis on Hafez’s eyebrows [he laughed] but I d on’t know [if it
was] in the form I am suggesting.”
“You should do it!”
He laughed. “Maybe one of these days I will. But that would be a multi-,
multivolume project. Anyway, what w ere we talking about?”
“What kind of knowledge do you need to interpret?”
“Right. Let me see, I wrote this down, otherwise I w ill get distracted.”
Sheikh Alizadeh slipped on his glasses and peered down at his paper.
“So . . . you need to have a feeling [hess] for t hese words. But you also need
to understand grammar and structure, what is metaphor and what is not,
you need to have knowledge of the Qur’an, the sayings of the Prophet and
the Imams, ideally some Arabic, familiarizing yourself with lots of genres
and writers, others’ thoughts on the m atter, and dream interpretation, and
the third eye.”
Sheikh Alizadeh is advocating for a tafsir that requires a good amount
of outside learning and expertise. We discussed the purposes b ehind each
of these types of knowledge, which I summarize here. Knowledge of the
Qur’an and Hadith is necessary to recognize references, direct ones within
the poetry, as well as the fact that it is always important to read the Qur’an
in general. Familiarity with grammar and sentence structure are needed
to understand the nuanced meanings of the verses, b ecause “kernels of
reality,” in his words, can be found when analyzing grammar. Finally, the
use of outside sources is also recommended, as the sheikh noted: “For
example, what does Attar say about Hallaj? What does Mulla Sadra say
about Hallaj?20 You may understand Attar, Hallaj, and Mulla Sadra differ-
ently a fter reading all of them.” Outside sources not only provide their own
insight, then, but can be utilized comparatively, such that different topics
and ideas might be analyzed through different critical lenses. I w ill return
to the sheikh’s idea of “dream interpretation” shortly.
Given the weighty list of recommended types of knowledge that Sheikh
Alizadeh prescribed, I noted, “It would seem that it requires many years
82 Chapter Two

of study then to properly interpret the writing of the poets, it’s something
that must not be taken lightly.”
“Well, yes . . . yes, it is good to study and become knowledgeable in
these subjects. But you shouldn’t wait until you have studied for years and
years to read erfan. That would be a terrible shame. Nietzsche said, ‘There
are those who are thirty years old and have read all of the books and have
not an idea of their own.’ It is good to have but not required. There is an
important difference there. All that is required is desire of the heart [khas-
ten-e del]; the heart contains the best knowledge.”
I was surprised by this, after that long discussion of knowledge required
to carry out the best interpretation of Persian poetry. The point about re-
quirement is also significant, as the fact that you do not need to be schooled
in jurisprudence, Arabic, and so forth, opens up the possibility of tafsir for
many; as sacred as poetry is to Sheikh Alizadeh, permission (ejaze) to in-
terpret it does not seem to be a concern. There is also the fascinating idea,
evidenced by the Nietzsche quote, that one can be too learned, where you
might be stifled by your own educational training.
“So, it is good to be learned but not necessary.”
“Correct.”
“And one can read too much?” A fter all I had read about the need for
study, all I had heard from my interlocutors about the benefits of reading
and textual interpretation, I was mildly shocked by this idea.
“Yes! It is absolutely possible! It depends on the person of course. I
think for most people it is impossible to read too much. But some people
can read too much, certain people don’t want to think for themselves and
for these people, yes, it is something they need to be careful of.” A warning
to read less, for those so inclined, lest they be robbed of their capability for
independent thinking, “to think for themselves.” Moreover, it is a reminder
that it is not the accumulation of knowledge (elm) that is the ultimate goal
here, but rather the ability to use such training and skills to be able to as-
certain the “hidden meaning” of poems, presumably on one’s own terms.
These are interpretations that must accessed through one’s own faculties,
constitution, and thoughts.
“Can you speak a little more about dream interpretation? How does one
use dream interpretation [tabir-e khab] to understand poetry?”
“Ah yes! This is something I have thought a g reat deal on, and I am not
sure it is so popular with other sheikhs. We know of the utmost impor-
tance of dream interpretation. What is good enough for the Prophet Joseph
is good enough for us! So there are two ways. If you spend some time during

your day reading poetry, and then that night you have a dream you think
is relevant, you should reconsider your understanding of the poem. Or, if
you have a dream that makes you think of a poem or a certain poet, you
should then read that poem from the perspective of the dream.”
For many Sufis in Iran, dreams operate as a means to communicate with
loved ones passed on—or those who have returned to the beloved, as the
mystics say—and as a vehicle to receive messages from the Imams or the
Ahl-e Bayt [close companions of the Prophet] that provide guidance for
life decisions large and small. For Sheikh Alizadeh, dreams function as part
of his hermeneutic schema, where the oneiric realm can offer a sort of criti-
cal lens into understanding poetry. And it is a critical lens that is seemingly
hyperindividualized. Indeed, even if dreams are not considered pure prod-
ucts of one’s subconscious, as contemporary psychologists would have us
believe, but rather, as Mittermaier has shown us,21 as a place of interaction
between the veiled and unveiled worlds, where external forces can give
rise to particular reveries, there is no denying that they are highly indi-
vidualized events. Long a favorite topic for interpretation unto themselves,
dreams are understood here as a tool to better interpret poetic verse.
“Can you give me an example of using a dream to interpret a poem?”
Sheikh Alizadeh seemed uncharacteristically hesitant here.
“Well, it would have to be one of my dreams, b ecause I can’t share any
of my students,’ of course . . . let me think about it.”
“Of course.”
On a later visit, when I brought up interpretation of poetry through
dreams again, Sheikh Alizadeh told me he had thought about it and felt it
would be better not to. Instead, he promised that if I had a dream I thought
is relevant after reading poetry or that reminded me to think of a poem, I
should call him (I was soon to leave his city) and we would discuss it to-
gether. “That is okay to write about, because it is your decision.”
“How will I know if it’s a relevant dream?”
“Only you w ill know if it’s an important dream or nonsense [dari-vari]
or unrelated [birapt] dream. I cannot teach you that. You will know.”
I felt suddenly a bit nervous, as if I had been granted a great responsibil-
ity. How would I know if it was the right dream? I was terribly curious to
see how dream-as-critical-lens operated but did not want to provide an
example that was somehow . . . not genuine? Inappropriate? I was torn be-
tween an opportunity to gather ethnographic information and a desire to
respect the intellectual and presumably ethical parameters set in place by
84 Chapter Two

the sheikh. Given the gravitas with which Sheikh Alizadeh had approached
the topic—needing extra time to consider whether he would share his own
dream hermeneutic and ultimately deciding in the negative—it seemed as
if such an exercise was not one to be taken lightly. While Sheikh Alizadeh
and his group had been exceedingly open, his remark that “it is okay to
write about” only my own poem-and-dream and his immediate acknowl-
edgment of the inappropriateness of sharing his students’ examples indi-
cated a hesitancy in making them public as well. The sheikh’s reassurance
did not give me much confidence.
“Thank you, I w ill try my best to know when and if I have such a dream,
one that I can use to understand poetry.”
His light-hearted demeanor suddenly returned and he laughed good-
naturedly at my nervousness, which I did not realize was so transparent:
“Do not look so concerned! It is not so serious as that! You will understand
[Khodat mifahmi].”
A few weeks later, I was in another city. I had a quiet evening in and
watched bootleg DVDs of American TV shows on my laptop and read some
poems of Rumi from my favorite collection. That night, I had a dream
of open fields. I must admit it was perhaps because I had been reading
Rumi immediately before bed, but I felt like it was time to contact Sheikh
Alizadeh.
And so I did. I called him that day and we discussed my dream and the
poems I had been reading the prior evening. I would like to offer more
details h ere, but a few days a fter our discussion Sheikh Alizadeh left me a
voicemail: “Seema Khanum, I hope you and your f amily are d oing well.
Please give them all of my regards. A fter giving it some thought, I think it
may be best that you do not write about your dream interpretation [tabir]
in your thesis. I fear it is not scholarly enough. I wish you all success and
best wishes [piruz bashid].”
I called Sheikh Alizadeh on the phone, thinking he had concerns that
such a practice was too superstitious (khorafati) and not “academic”
enough. As it turned out, he was concerned that it was too much of a
private (khosusi) matter to be made public. “Is it because I am writing it
down?” I asked. “Should I not mention understanding poetry and dreams
together at all?” “No, no, writing down such things is fine, my students and
I take notes about dream interpretation all the time. And I think it is fine to
write about it generally [dar kol] . . . but, I am not comfortable with pub-
lishing it in a book that w ill be read by many. Even if it is your dream and

your thesis.” And so, I am respecting Sheikh Alizadeh’s wishes and keeping
my dream hermeneutic private.
Up until this point, Sheikh Alizadeh had been an extremely enthusiastic
and loquacious interlocutor, generously offering his thoughts and wisdom
in any way he could. The question of dream interpretation and whether or
not to include it in this book was the moment where he hesitated most,
his trademark gregariousness replaced with caution and doubt. At issue
was not the interpretation of the dream or the transcribing of a vision into
language, externalizing and concretizing it, but rendering it public. His re-
sponses as to why it was not appropriate w ere more a demurring than an
explanation, with a simple reply that “it is better not to [write about it].”
What does this teach us about the dream and dreaming, according to
Sheikh Alizadeh? It would appear that the dream is too intimate for public
consumption, that something would be lost or, perhaps, exposed, if one
were to share with the world their dream and its interpretation, this missive
from the unseen realm. The dream should only be discussed and debated
by the dreamer and t hose with whom they are close, and not by someone
with whom they share no intimacies at all. In changing his mind about
my sharing of even my own dream, in being uncomfortable on my behalf,
Sheikh Alizadeh demonstrated his belief in the potency of the dream.
Given that we are discussing dreams in the context of poetry I am re-
minded too of a line by Gaston Bachelard: “The function of poetry is to
give back to us the situation of our dreams.”22 Here, the literary realm acts
as a means to transport us to the oneiric realm, a world much closer to the
divine, the world to which the Sufi longs to return.
Another day, another conversation.

“Does a poem contain multiple meanings or multiple interpretations,
and if so are some better than the oth—”
“one hundred p ercent [sad dar sad] there are multiple meanings!”
I did not even have a chance to finish my question before Sheikh Aliza-
deh roared back his response with his trademark enthusiasm. “Come now
Seema, you know that!”
“There is no singular meaning to a poem. Every time I think I under-
stand a poem, I look again and find something new. And I am just one per-
son! The first time . . . the last time. . . . I have read somewhere that even the
name of God, Allah, comes from alihtu fil-shay, I am bewildered. I sn’t that
amazing? It is true, we can never understand God, we must be bewildered,
overwhelmed at the very least when we hear his name.”
86 Chapter Two

“And one should be . . . bewildered, when reading these poems?”
He continued: “yes! No human can ever know all the meanings at once.
It is impossible. You must be bewildered at some point. But of course, it is not
just bewilderment you feel when you read poetry, it is illumination, it is love,
it is divine silence [khamushi elahe], and o thers’ stations [maqamat] too.”
I am reminded here of Sheikh Noroozi’s injunction that “confusion is
beneficial,” that to feel disoriented or perplexed is an admirable and appro-
priate response to reading poetry, one that demonstrates the acceptance of
one’s limitations. Sheikh Alizadeh expresses a similar sentiment, although
he seems to limit “bewilderment” to one of the stations of reading po-
etry. On the other hand, he compares the feeling of being overwhelmed
when one realizes the limitless number of meanings of the poem to that of
being overwhelmed with the concept of God himself. Intriguingly, he also
mentions other “stations” that one encounters when reading poetry. The
idea of stations on the path, a series of moments or metaphorical “places”
that successively mark one’s progression t oward tawhid, or u nion with the
divine, is a widely accepted one within Persian Sufism. Sheikh Alizadeh’s
suggestion indicates a belief that the process of reading a poem, of inter-
preting its meanings, mirrors the project of mysticism as a w hole.
I turned our conversation to teaching, and pedagogy.
“What are the qualities of a good guide?” This is another question I had
sent him in advance.
“The ability to convince o thers you know what y ou’re talking about”
Sheikh Alizadeh declared with authority and then laughed robustly.
“It is all about charlatanism!” His wife Effat Khanum chimed in. Again
with the jokes with t hese two; later I could not help but shake my head and
smile, wondering if Sheikh Alizadeh had thought of this joke beforehand.
After a bit more prodding, I received a more substantive answer.
“The love and emphasizing [takid] of ambiguity/allegory [mutas-
habih]!” He said this assertively, pointing his finger to the sky as he did so.
“This is the most important quality for a guide [murshid]. Make sure you
write that down. Discussing the mutashabih verses is what a teacher must
do with his students. And the batin in t hese meanings is without end and
should not end! You w ill never finish, so as a teacher you must not only be
comfortable with this, but you have to have an inclination [alaghe] for this
task without end. And, and constantly, constantly, constantly remember-
ing that you do not know the best tafsir yourself! So, from your student
you ask the best questions you can. This w ill show them their best way
[rah]. All this is what makes the best guide.”

And so, Sheikh Alizadeh has pulled yet again from Qur’anic sciences
in his description of poetry. The term mutashabih contains a variety of
meanings in both Sunni and Shi‘i jurisprudence, ranging from “allegory”
to “analogy” to “unclear.” Typically, Qur’an 3:7 is often cited in discussions
of mutashabih and its opposite, mohkam (direct or clear):
It is He Who has revealed the Book to you. Some of its verses are absolutely
clear and lucid (mohkam), and these are the core of the Book. Others are
ambiguous (mutashabih). Those in whose hearts there is perversity, always
go about the part which is ambiguous, seeking mischief and seeking to ar-
rive at its meaning arbitrarily, although none knows their true meaning
except Allah. On the contrary, those firmly rooted in knowledge say: “We
believe in it; it is all from our Lord alone.” No one derives true admonition
from anything except those of understanding.23
Although h ere the dangers of ambiguous verses are expressed, especially

for those “seeking mischief ” who might interpret verses for nefarious pur-
poses, Sheikh Alizadeh takes an alternate route. You must lean into the un-
certainty of meanings whose open-endedness, in his words, should remain
a central point of concern for teachers. Not to unpack them fully, but to
remember why they are ambiguous to begin with: to support the limita-
tions of human thought. And so, it is questions, not answers, that a teacher
can use to show his students the best path.
“Can you explain the meaning of mutashabih a bit more? I thought it
meant allegory (tamsil)?”
“No, it does not. Maybe when they do Qur’anic exegeses it does, but not
with poetry [shehr]. But I knew you would ask that! Its definition, I mean. I
thought of the words of Rumi [Mawlana]: ‘Form is the shadow, but mean-
ing is the sun.’ You see, meaning is the source and what creates the shadow,
so it is more powerful, but you cannot look at it directly, for it w
ill hurt you.
But the sun is beautiful, so you want to look at it. So what do you do? You
look at both clouds and sun!”
This poetic rendering of mutashabih—literally defining it by a line of
poetry—is a helpful reminder of what exactly is obscured in all these ab-
struse verses: meaning. In referring to Mawlana’s dictum that “meaning is
the sun,” Sheikh Alizadeh is not only reasserting the centrality of content
over style, but that there is a reason that the wisdoms contained within
poetic verse are concealed: direct exposure to them (to continue the sun
metaphor) is potentially harmful. Such a sentiment is highly suggestive
of other mystical ideas of concealment (rozpushi), secrets (sirr), and not
88 Chapter Two

being exposed to ideas “too soon,” lest one become overwhelmed or too
shaken.24 Hence, mutashabih operates as a form of cloud cover; not to ob-
scure for obscurity’s sake but to shield one from a source too powerful to
encounter directly.
“Do the clear/direct (mohkam) verses need a teacher less?” I asked this
because mohkam is the counterpoint to mutashabih.
“I don’t like the term ‘mohkam’ but ‘zaher’ [external].”
“Why is that?”
“The external [zaher] is a better way for poetry. Mohkam is better for the
Qur’an. Zaher still, it is more like style and form, I think. You need to ask a
cleric [mullah] for that though, I’m not sure.”
“It seems like many of your methods of interpretation seem similar to
those in Qur’anic tafsir.”
Sheikh Alizadeh shrugged off my observation. “Perhaps. But t here are
a lot of shared ideas between the two, of course, poetry is based on the
Qur’an. I need to look at Allameh Tabatabai’s al-Mizan [Tabatabai’s exege-
sis of the Qur’an] and his interpretation of Hafez to see the differences. Of
course t here are many though. I am just a simple neighborhood teacher
[mo‘alem] though. Perhaps I have read too much Qur’anic commentary!”
He said this last sentence with a chuckle. Considering he is a man who de-
lights in declarative statements almost as much as he delights in ambiguity,
I am intrigued by Sheikh Alizadeh’s seeming ambivalence t oward his mixed
methods of tafsir. I tried to discuss his blurring of hermeneutic genres on
two other occasions but both times he came across as similarly disinter-
ested, even when I mentioned how his understanding of poetic verse as
a mode of Qur’anic interpretation seems to be fairly unique. He restates
his inadequacy in his abilities to undertake Qur’anic tafsir—unusual in a
country where many lay people hold Qur’anic reading circles—although I
have a sense he feels so mostly in his role of teacher. In addition, there is his
assertion that “poetry is based on the Qur’an,” an idea that would certainly
support Sheikh Alizadeh’s propensity for a shared hermeneutics for both.
Discussions with Students of Sheikh Alizadeh
As I had done with Sheikh Noroozi’s students, I also spoke with Sheikh
Alizadeh’s about how they would describe his pedagogical skills and capa-
bilities as a teacher. While with Sheikh Noroozi’s students I was interested
in how they might react to his self-professed limitations as a teacher, with

Sheikh Alizadeh’s devotees I posed a more open-ended question: “Can you
describe the sheikh’s teaching? What is some of the advice he gives you?”
My first interlocutor was Ahmad-Reza, a tour guide in his fifties. His
response was indicative of discussions I would have with o thers: “He says
always, ‘I am humble dust [khak], and always learn with you. He is lead-
ing the discussion of whatever text we are reading, but I think he is the
most excited to learn of all! You have seen how he is. He is very warm and
sociable [Majles rah garm mikonand], so he is a very friendly teacher. He is
not intimidating, but seems like we are understanding the poetry together.
He asks so many questions, it is like he wants us to lead him. But the batin
is difficult, so I think he takes real pleasure in it too.”
Two students brought up the same phrase: Kayvan, a thirty-year-old
who worked in his cousin’s fruit shop, and Mahbubeh, a homemaker in her
forties, stated that “he tells us we must be our own guide,” again empha-
sizing Sheikh Alizadeh’s understanding of the individuated nature of the
path. Mahbubeh said, “He offers the best questions! That’s how he teaches
us how to read.” Kayvan also said, with some amusement, “He always says
so many paths, where should we begin? I think he should write something
because he has so many ideas, but I’m not sure he w ill. Maybe he has too
many ideas.”
Shima, a young w oman who held an advanced degree in management
but was currently working in a perfume shop, first extolled the sheikh’s
knowledge of literature more broadly. “He is like a living book [ketab-e ze-
ndeh], he is so knowledgeable. It is funny though because he asks so many
questions—it’s kind of frustrating actually, sometimes I just want to know
the answer. But it doesn’t make you nervous, like in school when they call on
you to answer with the right answer. It makes you think more. So I enjoy it.”
Given his emphasis on questioning and the individuated nature of the
path, it seems that Sheikh Alizadeh appears to his students as an enthusi-
astic, approachable, and affable teacher, one whose belief in the endless
nature of batin informs his pedagogy alongside his philosophy.
Unknowing of Text, Unknowing of Authority
What is a collection of poetry for a Sufi? What does it provide, and for
whom? Where does its power reside, and how might one access it?
According to these Sufis, the reading of poetic verse is something that
will transform you, fundamentally and unequivocally. Its alchemical prop-
90 Chapter Two

erties are secondary only to those of the Qur’an and the Hadith, the texts
with which much Persian poetry is always in conversation. In encoun-
tering the ideas contained within, ideas presented in the language of the
artist, or “painterly language,” as Sheikh Alizadeh says, and reading them
with the “open heart” of Sheikh Noroozi, you w ill travel ever further on
the path, progressing into higher stages on your spiritual journey, forever
transformed. Such a belief in metamorphosis-through-poetry is not exclu-
sive to these particul ar Sufis, but it is one that is at the core of the founda-
tion of their broader epistemology.
It is imperative to remember as well that these are “endless texts,” as per
Sheikh Noroozi, containing a multitude of meanings, both hidden and
apparent, and a seemingly infinite number of interpretations. Moreover,
the methods by which to appreciate and be affected by the words of the
saints are also, if not endless, quite numerous. The actual poems, each
ghazal and bayt, and perhaps in certain instances every word and even
every letter, are entryways that lead to a universe of ideas, the collection
of poems in turn forming a constellation of infinite meaning. And for
Sheikh Alizadeh in particular, for whom Persian poetry is an interpreta-
tion of the esoteric aspects (batin) of the Qur’an, to interpret is a task
without end. Each reading leads to yet another series of questions, ever
deeper, ever more profound. With apologies to Paul Ricoeur, sometimes
the text is an unlimited field of possible constructions.25 Just as stages of
the path of gnosis are graduated, so too are the forms of understanding
of the text.
Indeed, many of these meanings—the “deeper” ones, the “hidden”
ones, the “inner” ones, the ones of the invisible realm (batin)—are able
to be ascertained only by those closer to union with God (tawhid) as
opposed to t hose in the e arlier stages of their spiritual journey. In other
words, one’s ability to read is in part a reflection of one’s spiritual advance-
ment. Remember the early imperative: to become a darvish you must read.
And so, there is an almost circular exchange of knowledge: the more you
read, the more you transform; the more you transform, the better you read,
until there exists a blurring h ere, one between self, world, and text.
Moreover, there is endlessness not only in content, but in method. Lit-
erary, philosophical, philological, oneiric, metaphorical, allegorical, his-
torical: these are all modes of critique that are possible, where even the
genre is at once utterly clear and yet also a provocation. Can poetry, with
its instantly recognizable grammatical structures, also be seen as a form of
tafsir? What does it mean that t here are so many resonances between how

t hese sheikhs and their followers interpret poetry and how other Islamic
thinkers—Shi‘i, Sufi, even Sunni—might approach Qur’anic exegesis?
For most Iranians, imbuing the reading of poetry with such phenom-
enological powers also shifts their understanding of poetry as a source of
national pride, as the highest literary art form (and for many the highest
philosophical art form), into something simultaneously more personal
and more powerful. In a sense, it is perhaps not dissimilar to what Kant
describes as the differences between beauty and the sublime.26 For Kant,
beauty arises from form, bounded and contained, whereas the sublime is
tied to “boundlessness” and formlessness, surpassing all forms of sensory
understanding. These works of poetry are viewed by the mystics as simi-
larly uncontained. It is not (only) the perfection of the literary form that
they admire, but the philosophical ideas contained within them.
Ultimately, t hese Sufis adhere to an interpretative framework for the
understanding of Persian poetry that mimics their idea of unknowing
(ma‘rifat) as an exercise without limit or finality. Analysis that leads to
more questions than answers, a hermeneutics defined by the possibility
for infinite meaning, progressive layers of ideas revealed only as one moves
closer to union with God (tawhid) . . . this is what is meant by an unknow-
ing of text.
And so, another question remains: If one embraces such a hermeneuti-
cal stance, how is this material taught? As I have tried to elaborate thus far,
this stance contains significant ramifications for techniques of pedagogy
and spiritual authority.
Throughout my discussions with the sheikhs I noticed at times a sort
of deferral of responsibility. In other words, both Sheikh Noroozi and
Sheikh Alizadeh are spiritual authority figures who are able and—perhaps
more remarkably—willing to designate the limits of their own authority.
Before discussing this further, it is important to note that both sheikhs be-
lieve that it is imperative that one begins the journey of the spiritual path
with a guide, one who w ill point out the appropriate texts and some fa-
miliarization with reading techniques that occur in the group meetings.
At the introductory stage at least, it is unwise to tread unguided. Beyond
reaffirming the necessity of a sheikh, the fact that t here is a difference in
the capabilities of a teacher for a novice versus the capabilities of a teacher
for a more advanced student suggests that t here is a real and substantial
transformation of the self that occurs.
There are echoes here too of what Shahab Ahmed has called “explor-
ative authority.” Ahmed explains: “Whereas the proponent of prescriptive
92 Chapter Two

authority views his authority as a license to prescribe to another, the b earer
of explorative authority views his authority as a license to explore (by) him-
self.27” Ahmed was writing against the tendency he sees in Islamic stud-
ies to focus too much on tracing what Muslims deemed “correct,” therein
downplaying the nonprescriptive, “exploratory” tendencies of Muslim
scholars, which he sees as comprising the “historical bulk” of the Islamic
discursive tradition. He emphasizes how an ethos of exploration brings
forward the ambiguities, vagaries, and intriguing contradictions within
Islamic thought, rather than the narrow pathway of prescriptive thought,
where things may only be discerned to be “correct” or “not correct.” And
yet despite this advocacy of centering Muslim scholarship that focuses
upon the open-endedness of Islamic thought, just as my interlocutors do
here, Ahmed still characterizes this “exploratory reasoning” as a form of
authority. As he writes: “Exploration is precisely the business of setting
out into the unknown, the uncertain, the unexperienced, the unsettled, the
new—it is something that not everyone feels able to do (or that someone
feels that everyone else is able to do).”28
In contrast, Sheikh Noroozi and Sheikh Alizadeh emphasize that all
Muslims, or at least all of their followers, must embrace this experience of
encountering the unknown when grappling with mystical epistemologies,
not just those who occupy more rarefied intellectual-spirito registers. And
while I again should emphasize that the Sufis are clear in their need for
a teacher, especially at the beginning of their training, I believe the chal-
lenge posed by questioning the authority of the sheikhs is more profound
than that posed by Ahmed. Ahmed questions the form of authority, not
the idea that the notion of authority, when confronted with a type of text
or more accurately, a particular hermeneutic stance, can be challenged as
a whole. (I would also take some issue with his depiction of the “prescrip-
tive authority” in the works of Talal Asad as being devoid of “exploration,”
but that is a somewhat separate issue.) As such, while Ahmed would likely
be delighted at the hermeneutic stance of my interlocutors, I believe their
attitudes toward textual authority/nonauthority pushes beyond the “ex-
plorative” and into the undoing of the category as a whole.
Moreover, both Sheikh Noroozi and Sheikh Alizadeh seem to be in
agreement that, at some point, however difficult to determine, a guide w ill
outlast their purpose. For Sheikh Noroozi, this is the moment he defers
to his student’s “inner heart” as a better teacher than he, and when Sheikh
Alizadeh insists that the “desire of the heart” (khastan-e del) dictate his
students’ textual analyses. In extolling the limits of their own pedagogy,

the sheikhs reaffirm the individualized nature of the project of Sufism. It
is only through accessing this most interiorized form of knowledge, this a
priori knowledge that has been lost, that the individual can best interpret
the text before them. Just as intimate knowledge of the divine cannot
be directly taught, so too can the inner meaning (batin) of the text not be
transmitted via another.
The singular nature of the path is also seen in the sheikhs’ desire to
guide their students to find the appropriate questions, rather than provide
them with the most accurate answers for a text, especially with the students
of Sheikh Noroozi. In d oing so, his role as instructor is one who suggests
further modes of inquiry, other conundrums to mull over, pushing them
to think further on unexplored epistemological terrain rather than offering
information to then think through. This element of their pedagogy I con-
sider less a deferral of authority but rather a reimagining of the master as
the ultimate provider of questions than the source of all knowledge.
Finally, in my conversations with the sheikhs I noticed an affective di-
mension too: Sheikh Noroozi seemed a bit melancholy in describing his
limitations as a teacher, especially as he described the possibilities for
learning at the feet of the sixth Shi‘i Imam, Imam Jafar al-Sadeq. It seems
that for Sheikh Noroozi the “inner heart” might be a better guide than he,
but not better than one of the Holy Imams, therein reaffirming their posi-
tion as exalted ones as well as his own lesser one. One’s own “inner heart,”
one’s own intuitive cognition, is thus merely a substitute or stand-in guide
for these beloved Imams. Given that it is currently the age of the Larger
Occultation, where the last of the Shi‘i Imams is in hiding, waiting to re-
turn on Judgement Day, Sheikh Noroozi’s melancholy is understandable.
In the end, he is a poor substitute for a spiritual authority unequivocally
greater than he, a sentiment harkening back to the time immediately after
the occultation of the Last Imam, where no one seemed e ager to assume
any spiritual authority after the age of the Imams.
In contrast to Sheikh Noroozi’s melancholy is Sheikh Alizadeh’s seem-
ing delight at the spiritual path’s inability to be chartered and communi-
cated. The infinite layers of meaning, the highly individuated process of
interpretation, the insurmountable ambiguity of poetic language: all of
these puzzles he recounted with g reat pleasure. For Sheikh Alizadeh, all
these hermeneutic stances are what lead to the “unteachability” of the text,
and are also what he views as their source of greatest enjoyment (khoshi).
As he has taught his pupils, he is a teacher who delights in not knowing
the answer. His inability to do so is not a reflection of a lack of knowledge
94 Chapter Two

on his part, but an affirmation that texts of infinite meaning allow oppor-
tunities for engagement without end. Ambiguity in poetry hence allows
for more possibilities for readers, even if it means their guide has to take a
more circuitous route by which to teach them. This is what is meant as an
unknowing of authority. It is not a total refutation of the classic spiritual
guide (murshid), but a reconfiguration of their capabilities and responsi-
bilities in light of these groups’ mystical epistemologies.

3 Unknowing of Self,
Unknowing of Body
Reach for the cup and make us all drunk, for no one has become
happy unless they are hidden from themselves/When you have
concealed yourself from yourself/Flee the world quickly! Do not
turn to face/Back toward yourself—beware, beware!
rumi, divan-i shams
All things in creation suffer annihilation and there remains the

face of the Lord in its majesty and bounty.
surah al-rahman, qur’an 55:27
Upon arrival, it is already very crowded. We locate spots on the floor,

silently and gingerly stepping around the men and women already
seated. Those who come after us hover around the doorway, spilling
out into the next room. No matter. Th
ey’ll still be able to hear t hings
from there.
Entering the room, one first notices that the walls are as crowded
as the floor. From the carpet to the ceiling, the sides of the room
are a veritable display case of instruments—long-necked sitars and
slim neys, round and delicate daf drums and even a sturdily mounted,
heavy-looking santur—and calligraphic works large and small, relay-
ing surahs from the Qur’an and ghazals from the medieval canon,
their thick, black ink appearing even more emphatic against deep
gold inlays. The two largest works are invocations: Ya Hazrat Mawlana,
ya Hazrat Ali, invocations of the saints whose names have been called up
an endless number of times, in a limitless array of situations and circum-
stances. And there is more: strings of prayer beads (tasbih) of various col-
ors, glass and plastic, pinned at various intervals; a cowhide, brown and
white, stretched to full length; two old cloaks (abeh) like the clergy wear,
but that were worn by most men in Iran in the early part of the twentieth
century; more sinister objects as well, chains and dast-bi, the objects used
for self-flagellation in the Ashura ceremonies. There are also photographs:
candid snapshots and formal portraits of several Iranian Sufi qotbs and
sheikhs of various orders, sheikhs from both within Iran and t hose who
lived abroad, accompanied by a good number of photographs and sketches
of the ostad, or master-teacher, who works in this space.
The ostad himself sits at the front of the room, on the floor like everyone
else, slowly leafing through a large volume of poetry, his gaze cast down-
ward. Several other enormous tomes are placed around him.
The rest of the room sits quietly. A few whispered exchanges occur be-
tween neighbors, but generally all are s ilent. Their silence communicates
both their readiness and their expectation.
Not long after, the ostad clears his throat and begins.
He starts with Rumi, reading through the lines and then in the same
breath offering his interpretation (tafsir). He speaks slowly and deliber-
ately, taking pains to provide emphasis where he deems necessary, holding
his gaze out to his listeners: Do they understand this point? He discusses
literary allusions and contesting views, metaphors and rhythms, asks ques-
tions to no one in particular and sometimes offers answers, and then re-
reads the lines (bayt) before continuing onward. He moves through the
tomes, reading the words aloud, then speaking aloud their meaning, or
at least a possibility of their meaning, in a tone both pedagogical and ani-
mated, his own eloquence a respectful response to the beautifully crafted
phrases, his cadence going up and down like the swirling calligraphy on
the page.
And the p eople listen. Mainly intently, it would seem. Men and
women—the youngest seems to be a boy of about fifteen, the oldest a
wiry octogenarian with a thick white beard—sit with serious counte-
nances, some with gazes downward, others with gazes upward. A few look
at the ostad with a strangely impassive, almost knowing glance. Some are
crying. . . .
Until the ostad concludes his readings, and slowly brings out his ka-
monche, resting it across his lap. He plays at the instrument, tuning and
Unknowing of Self, Unknowing of Body 97

tightening the strings, until slowly the notes he plucks from the strings
begin to resemble a melody, phrases moving in and out, improvised al-
ways. A frame drum (daf) player joins him, softly, playing from the back of
the room. The phrases are mournful and contemplative, the punctuations
of the daf acting more as emphasis, a friend verbally agreeing with you,
than rhythmic pacesetter. The sing-song phrases continue, u ntil suddenly
you realize the melody has become more focused, more assertive, no lon-
ger sliding back into silence or starting over again. The musical phrases are
still improvised but always driving forward now, always moving forward at
a steady pace. The daf too has grown less intermittent, following along in
the manner of a sturdy companion. The steady pace continues, until one
begins to realize the sounds of the kamoncheh are increasing in volume, in-
creasing in tempo, when suddenly you realize they have reached a rollick-
ing pace, the emphasis coming on the beginning of each measure, forming
a repetitive and hypnotic phrasing, one after the other, clear and relentless,
once and again, once and again, as if each measure is the first, and you can-
not escape. Long mournful notes emerge sporadically, their duration all
the more pointed as they are ultimately swept away by the quick ones that
succeed them. The singing notes of the stringed instrument reach up and
out, but the first note in the phrase is still the most important. It continues
in this way until it all becomes about that one note, the ones that follow
simply trailing in its wake, allowing you to prepare yourself before the on-
slaught returns.
And then suddenly the kamoncheh has fallen away, the ostad having put
down his stringed instrument and taken up another daf drum to join his
accompanist performing from the back of the room, who never ceases to
play. The ostad quickly joins him and they move now, in unison, the audi-
tory pattern arriving from both the front and the back of the room, flat
palms hitting the stretched material, rolling fingers forming a staccato beat,
hard caresses along the frames’ edges making a whooshing sound to join
the hard percussions. Faster and faster the notes come, the players mov-
ing their whole bodies now, shoulders rising, pushing themselves forward
while seated, rocking back and forth. The rolling sounds continue forward.
All is rhythm now, impact and speed.
The old man with the wiry beard rocks his head forward and back, for-
ward and back, raising his hands from above his knees as if in danger of
losing his balance, half jumping up from his position on bended knees; sev-
eral women bury their heads in their hands, their sobbing filling the space;
other heads sway slowly sideways, tilted first one way then the other, the
98 Chapter Three

listeners close their eyes, perhaps to shut out all the other senses, to inun-
date themselves with sound and sound alone. Others move, up and for-
ward, back and down, or side to side, their bodies demanding recognition,
with movement as affirmation.
The rhythms continue. We are lost somehow, pulses quickened and for
no other reason than the sound emitted by the players before us, our cir-
culatory system responding to the pulses of the drums, disoriented in the
wake of an external rhythm.
“Hu!”
Breathe deeply in the wake of fast pulsations, I had been told, so you
may keep your calm.
Louder and louder, until an abrupt and dramatic stop.
. . .
The room returns the silence of the drums, as bodies relax and soften,
and p eople sit wordlessly for a minute longer. Quietly, slowly, some more
slowly than o thers, we begin to disperse. I catch the eye of my friend Noo-
sha, a student in her midtwenties, across the room, and she smiles widely
as we meet, the lines of p eople slowly swarming into a mass around the
door. “So, how was it?” I ask. “Did you go into a state [raft-i to hal]?” I find
myself asking the question somewhat shyly, I think b ecause, having spoken
to Noosha before, I knew she chooses her words very carefully and does
not like to think of herself as one of those—in her words—“crazy” (di-
vooneh) Sufis, something that “going into a state” (hal) might suggest. This
time, however, it seemed she had no such reservations. “Oh, it was r eally
great [kheili ali-bud],” she replied. “I was in another world [to ye alam-e dige
budam] during fana, I have enough energy for the whole week now.”
A moment in the Real to fuel a week in the Unreal. The musico-poetic
gathering described here is called a zekr ritual or ceremony. The word zekr
means “remembrance,” or “recognition,” arising out of the trilateral root “to
remember.” Through music and listening, poetry and contemplation, the
zekr offers an opportunity for the individual to remember God so fully and
completely that the self is totally subsumed in the divine. This active extin-
guishing of the self is called fana, as Noosha describes experiencing above.
Within Islamic mysticism the self is typically understood to be a bur-
den, or an obstacle. It is a hindrance that impedes one’s ability to achieve
union with God. Bayazid Bistami (d. AD 874), whom some scholars desig-
nate as one of the earlier thinkers to reflect on fana,1 describes the need to
remove the self with the following: “I saw the Real most high in a dream
and asked, ‘What is the path you like?’ He said ‘Say farewell to yourself,

and you have attained me.’ ”2 In other words, if one wishes to be united with
God (tawhid), it means that the self is so full of remembrance of God, so
consumed with His presence, that there is no room for the self as we typi-
cally know it. As such, subjectivity must undergo a radical transformation
in order to approach the divine register. This is the goal of the zekr ritual,
to achieve the loss of self that is necessary in order to become united with
God, to unknow the self in light of the experience with the divine.
The idea is as abstruse as it is ubiquitous within mystical literatures.
While the musings, directives, and explorations surrounding fana in the
mystical literatures are deeply complex and highly worthy of further ex-
ploration, my focus here is how lay Sufis articulated their understanding
and—where relevant—their experiences of fana. For some collectives with
whom I worked, fana was acknowledged as an important concept but did
not occupy their attention the way other mystical conceits did. It was not
until I worked with the group in this chapter, these most musically inclined
of my interlocutors, that it came to the forefront in our conversations.
In the first part of this chapter, I explore lay Sufis’ experiences of the
zekr and fana, annihilation of the self. What I found is that the mystics’ ex-
periences tend to fall into two broad categories. The first group articulates
their understandings of fana in a way that is redolent of the thoughts and
writings of the classical literatures, meaning that the extinguishing of the
self is expressed in largely theological terms, like the quieting of the lower
soul (nafs-e ammara) and the turn to nonexistence. The second group, in
contrast, describes their experience of fana as the loss of a much more so-
cialized self, interpreting the loss of self as the loss of what might be called
identity politics or the self in society. In the final part of this section, I com-
pare these Sufis’ desire to extinguish and destabilize subjectivity in light of
earlier calls by Iranian intellectuals like Jalal Al-e Ahmad and Ali Shariati
to “return to the self.”
In the second half of this chapter, I examine the relationship between
fana, listening, and the body. I explore contemporary Sufi aesthetic theo-
ries that expound upon the relationship between intentional listening and
the transformation of the self specifically, understanding the ways that
bodily and sensorial engagement might invoke a momentary alternative
to the Foucauldian body. In this way we might consider the zekr as an aes-
thetic phenomenon as well, one where the listening act emerges as a mode
of critical engagement for the destabilization of subjectivity.
In both sections, we see instances of an unknowing of self and body,
an advocacy for the unraveling of subjectivity and of bounded bodies in
100 Chapter Three

f avor of more opaque existential and ontological registers. To unknow the
self is to allow for the formulation of a radical subjectivity/nonsubjectivity,
which is necessary to become closer to the divine, a formulation made all
the more difficult by the fact it cannot be an act of pure volition. Union
with God cannot be achieved through the liberal autonomous self alone;
at some point such forms of subjectivities become a hindrance and must
be subsequently challenged and ultimately abandoned. Providing guid-
ance in this difficult endeavor is the experiential knowledge gathered from
the body, a body untethered.
The Nur Street Collective
The zekr ceremony described in the opening of this chapter took place
in a residential neighborhood on Nur Street. The collective is largely the
result of the organizational efforts of an individual I w ill call Irfan Ahmad
and a few of his friends. These organizers were in their late twenties to
late thirties, many married and some with young families, all had gone to
college, and some had graduate degrees. The large space on Nur Street in
which they held these gatherings was a private residence that belonged to
an aunt of one the organizers, although I never met the aunt myself. Using
private residences for large gatherings for devotional practices—Qur’anic
study groups, ceremonies for mourning saints, luncheons for saints’ birth-
days—is quite common in Iran, as Niloofar Haeri and Azam Torab have
written.3 People may reorganize their homes to host such an event, shuf-
fling furniture around to create space for guests to sit on the floor, and very
wealthy families or groups of families may devote a basement or part of an
apartment building for such purposes or even purchase a space for such
uses.
The Nur Street space was only different from these other domestic de-
votional enclaves in that it was marked by extensive decor that was explic
itly Sufi: from the portraits of various high spiritual leaders (qotbs), the
mystic’s begging bowl (kashkul),4 the calligraphic works praising “Haz-
rat” Rumi (hazrat is an iteration of hozur or “presence,” but often used
to refer to saints)—these w ere all visual signifiers that any Iranian would
recognize as adorning a place designated for (or at least sympathetic to)
mystical practice. In fact, the decor was much more elaborate than what
I saw in most long-established Sufi places of worship (khaneqah). Only
certain shrines I encountered, with their many lamps, flowers, portraits,

p hotographs, and votive gifts donated by the faithful, could compare to the
elaborate wall coverings of the Nur Street space.
These aesthetic decisions are also significant in light of the fact that,
out of all the Sufi collectives with whom I worked, the one described in
this chapter was the least cohesive. The zekr gatherings happened once or
twice a month on Fridays or Thursday evenings, were open to all, and w ere
made known to p eople through word of mouth and/or SMS, this occurring
before the age of Telegram or WhatsApp group messaging. P eople did not
chat among themselves before the poetry discussion and dispersed imme-
diately a fter the zekr concluded. Some individuals w ere regular devotees,
and others came or were brought by friends a single time. The attendees’
mystical activities outside the zekr gatherings varied wildly, with some
being members or even sheikhs of other Sufi collectives, and o thers just
devotees of the live music and poetry. The only other activity Irfan Ahmad
and his friends organized in this space was a poetry group, forming some
sort of core collective that also attended the zekr regularly. Private or group
music lessons were sometimes held in the space as well.
Glancing around the room at the photos of qotbs from disparate Iranian
Sufi orders, past and present, I asked this core group if they identified as
being part of or affiliated with any particular order, or if there were any
mystical authority figures of the moment or the recent past to whom they
were most drawn. I was unsurprised when they seemed unmoved by the
question; from their decorating scheme alone it did not look as if they
favored one or the other. “They all have something to teach us,” one of the
founding members told me. “They are all Shi‘i, they all write in Persian,
they all follow Shah Nimatullah Vali.” Someone else noted: “They are all
important, respected sheikhs, we read anything we find interesting.” And
so, authority was clearly recognized h ere—someone had made the effort
here to procure or print out a photo of a qotb, frame it, and hang it upon the
wall—but no individual had been identified as the single authority. Th ese
elders and their writings all existed as equally respected sources, therein
upending the Sufi tradition of devotion to one single, saint-like figure. This
is an important characteristic of this group, as it belies the typical notion
of mystics’ steadfast devotion to a single authority figure, oftentimes char-
acterized as “saint worship,” in f avor of a more self-directed form of study
as well as a more complex relationship to authority figures, a notion I have
explored in more detail elsewhere.
Finally, considering the loose ties between the individuals who at-
tended the zekr, I am very grateful to Irfan for introducing me to people as
102 Chapter Three

someone they could trust, as there were not too many opportunities to get
to know them otherwise. It is through his generosity, of time and of spirit,
that much of the research for this chapter was possible.
Written Definitions of Fana, Past and Present
I summoned the self to the Lord: it did not answer, and I abandoned
it and went to the presence alone.
junayd, through attar, early islamic mysticism (1996)
Before delving into the discussions and interviews with my interlocutors,

I would like to spend some time exploring fana and the zekr ritual as de-
lineated by authority figures of the classical and contemporary eras. In this
way, we might be able to better understand the ways my interlocutors’ ex-
periences and articulations of fana and zekr converge or diverge from t hese
more authoritative accounts.
As a reminder, the goal of Nimatullahi Sufism is tawhid, or union with
God. This u nion is not a simple coming together of individual and divine,
however, but requires a much more substantial transfiguration on the part
of the h uman. Indeed, in order to (re)unite with the divine, one must dis-
card no less than human consciousness itself. If one is to travel from the
Unreal to the Real, to enter into the realm of divine ontologies, they must
first remove the basest parts, or attributes (sefat) of their consciousness in
order to allow room for divine consciousness. This form of base human
consciousness is often translated as the “self ” or “lower self ” (nafs-e am-
mara). As Bayazid Bistami has written: “O Lord, how long w ill t here be a
me and a you between me and you? Take out the me, so my me w ill be in
you, so I will be nothing.”5
Even by Sufi standards of abstruseness, fana is a particularly thorny con-
cept, and the questions embedded within its very formulation are many:
How can one actively discard their own self ? What remains in place of
the self once it is removed? Does there remain any vestige of the individ-
ual’s consciousness, or have they been subsumed entirely by the divine?
To better understand fana, I’ll outline here some definitions based on the
writings of prominent thinkers of Islamic esotericism as well as twentieth-
century Iranian sheikhs. Although this is a poor exploration of a complex
and nuanced idea, my objective is to establish something approximating
“canonical” definitions in order to have something with which to compare

my interlocutors’ definitions as we explore their understanding of the un-
knowing of self.
To begin, fana is typically seen as an active process, one that requires
much contemplation (ta’amogh) and discipline. In his Qur’anic exegesis
Kashf al-Asrar, the sheikh Maybudi (d. AD 1514) makes frequent mention
of “killing” or “subduing” the self (nafs), but also that one can achieve a
higher form of self (nafs-e mutammin) through contemplation and medita-
tion.6 Iranian sheikhs of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries use simi-
lar language in their definitions of fana. Javad Nurbakhsh describes it in
perhaps the simplest terms: “Fana is the . . . contemplat[ion] of the being
of the Divine, thus annihila[ting] his own being. . . . [One’s] inward state
is annihilated in the Divine.”7
Thus, we have the removal of “being,” and the “inward state” through
the act of contemplation of the divine. The removal of the “inward state”
is particularly intriguing, as it would seem that it is exactly this “inward”
register that would be responsible for the act of contemplation. By being
“annihilated in the Divine,” however, the “inward state” has now simply
become indistinguishable from that of God. Seyed Mustafa Azmayesh de-
scribes the process through simile:
In other words, consider your true self as being like crystal sugar (nabat).
Nabat cannot crystallize without first being dissolved into water. So for
crystallization to occur, the sugar has to be dissolved in the water. The
water is the reality, the intervention of the Master, in order to allow this
process to occur. . . . This process of dissolution is called fana in Sufism,
which means annihilation. In appearance the sugar is completely dissolved,
but only when it has disappeared completely it can crystallize.8
Describing fana as an almost chemical reaction, Azmayesh highlights here

the way in which it functions as a process and mode of becoming, with hints
of engagement with the material world, with the “water” being an “interven-
tion” of God. Such utilization of the physical world w ill be seen in Azmayesh’s
writings on m usic and listening later on as well. Through both the medieval
and contemporary examples, we see how this transformation of subjectivity,
this unknowing of self, at some point involves a process of activation.
The obliteration of the self into God, this closeness with the divine that
we have discussed thus far, might also seem to suggest something poten-
tially blasphemous: the individual essentially becoming divine themselves.
Indeed, if one is obliterated into God, might that not mean they become
God-like themselves? This is an accusation that has plagued mystics for
104 Chapter Three

centuries, most famously in the case of Mansur al-Hallaj and his ecstatic
cries of “I am truth” (ana al-haqq) or Bistami’s notorious cries of “I am He”
(Ana howa) and “Glory unto Me! How g reat is my majesty!” (Sobhani! Ma
a‘zama sa’ni!). Even today, the case of Hallaj in particular remains polar-
izing, especially given the outsize influence of his legacy.9
Most Hallaj sympathizers, however, are quick to point out the distinc-
tion between achieving fana and “becoming God-like.” In his short treatise
Ketab al-Fana, Junayd (d. ad 810) provides clarity on the issue. I use here
the translation by A. H. Abdel-Kader:
When a man goes forth from his own qualities and enters into the qualities
of God, he goes forth from his own w ill, which is a gift to him from God,
and enters into the W ill of God . . . those who have erred in this doctrine have
failed to observe that the qualities of God are not God. To make God identical
with His qualities is to be guilty of infidelity.10
Junayd offers h ere yet another definition of fana, and one made by many
others:11 that becoming “annihilated into the divine” means gaining divine
attributes (sefat) specifically. In other words, the loss of self is the loss of
base attributes (ego, envy, stinginess) in favor of divine attributes (unity,
compassion, spiritual largesse). This is the definition that I saw a number
of my interlocutors adhere to or allude to most frequently. Perhaps one
could say that, by this definition, fana here is an existential transformation
into becoming godly, rather than godlike. Finally, it is worth noting that for
Junayd fana is also an active process, as he “goes forth from his own will,
which is a gift to him from God.”
Fana is also articulated by many thinkers as becoming nothing, or be-
coming nonexistent. To return to Bistami: “O Lord, how long will there be
a me and a you between me and you? Take out the me, so my me will be in
ill be nothing.”12 This embrace of self-as-nothing not only avoids
you, so I w
the accusation of fana as a means to “become God,” but also r eaffirms
the world of the Truth—the divine realm—as that which is Unreal. The
prominent twentieth-century Shi‘ite cleric Allameh Sayyed Mohammad
Tabatabai has also discussed the merits of nonexistence quite extensively,
exploring such themes in his Risalat-e Wilayat.13 Here, to lose the self
means not that one has been replaced by the divine, merely that the dis-
tinction between the person and the divine has been collapsed. There is a
subtle but key distinction there: In this way, the annihilation of the self is
perhaps better understood as the removal of the boundary, or as is more
commonly known, the veil, which separates the two.

Finally, it is also imperative to remember that it is only the rare Sufi mas-
ter, one most “advanced on the path,” who actually is said to achieve this
state. Indeed, despite the clear delineation of the objective of the zekr, only
a few are able to reach such rarefied planes of experience. The rest of hu-
manity is only capable of partial success, which is itself a specific state, one
where awareness of the annihilation and some level of base consciousness
remain. The Sufi, then, is caught between consciousness and unconscious-
ness, the tangible and the intangible: this is what we will later call the realm
of bodily knowledge. However, at this point it is crucial to remember that,
during the zekr ritual, some element of consciousness for t hese particu
lar Sufis remains, even as it is constantly put into question. For the over-
whelming majority of people, the complete and total unknowing of self is
never fully achieved, and hence some element of consciousness is present.
But what remains, a form of alternative consciousness based on a destabi-
lized self, is distinct enough from the consciousness of the fully stable and
known self.
In this brief overview of canonical and contemporary written defini-
tions of fana, we have seen the embrace of a transformation of conscious-
ness in this existential and subsequent ontological restructuring. W hether
fana is understood as a form of dissolution into the divine or a complete
negation of being, it is clear that in any articulation of fana a radical recon-
figuration of subjectivity must occur.
Fana and the Disappearance of the Unreal
With this understanding in place, let us now look at the ways in which fana
is articulated by lay Sufis, meaning those who have limited to no “training”
or education in mystical epistemologies. How widely do they deviate, if at
all? Given the abstruseness of the idea and the diversity of the i ndividuals
of this group—in terms of age, socioeconomic background, education,
and gender—it is perhaps not surprising that I received a wide range of
responses to my inquiries.
To reiterate, I found two major forms of articulations of fana. The first
group described the extinguishing of the self in terms of a loss of what
might be called sociopolitical identity and/or material conditions. The
lessening of the self meant that they were freed from the concerns of being
a person-in-the-world, unencumbered by very serious material concerns
such as unemployment, financial problems, or family issues, therein freed
106 Chapter Three

from the difficulties of life in the Unreal. In doing so, this group is less inter-
ested in a refutation of the self as a whole and more interested in a distanc-
ing or liberation form a certain type of self. This articulation of fana seems
to me decidedly distinct from the forms of unknowing of the self discussed
thus far; the investment here is on the removal of those attributes that an-
chor oneself in a certain position within the Unreal, so that closeness with
God requires less an annihilation of subjectivity in and of itself and more a
quieting of the Unreal world.
The second group spoke of the experience of fana in language that more
closely mirrored classic discourses of the phenomenon, where extinguish-
ing of the self indicated a squashing of the lower soul (nafs-e ammara).
This second group also utilized more typical theological terminology to
describe the experience, making l ittle mention of the Unreal world or how
the zekr was a release from m atters of the trials and tribulations of the
everyday. In the following sections, I w ill explore t hese two articulations
in greater detail as well as how each fits into the broader Iranian socio-
theological milieu.
Sara and Setare, two recent college graduates who had been good friends
since middle school, usually attended the zekrs together. They had been
introduced to the gatherings by a third friend, who sometimes accom-
panied them as well. Setare had also started attending the poetry groups
held at Nur Street, and had long been an avid reader of the medieval poet
Hafez. She had an easygoing, affable air about her. When I asked what it
was about Hafez that interested her, she shrugged her shoulders and said,
“Hafez is a genius. It is beauty, it’s wisdom, what’s not to like? [Chizi nist
keh adam dust nadasht-e bashe]” The merits of Hafez as self-evident as the
beauty of a sunrise.
Sara was more animated, and voluble. I turned the conversation to the
zekr gatherings, and I asked them both what they saw as the objective of
the ritual.
“To become close with God,” Sara replied. “I feel so close to God during
the zekr.” Setare agreed and added: “I become very aware of God. This is what
the zekr should do, make you remember what is important, and that is God.”
“Yes, exactly,” Sara reaffirmed. “During the zekr, when I am close to
God, I feel a sense of calm [aramesh].” She elaborated further:
I d on’t have to worry about things, like things that [are] bothering me
or occupying my thoughts, like getting a job. It’s tough for everyone but

I think especially tough for w omen, you know? Th ere are so many more
qualified w omen than men! I feel like sometimes they w ill hire men over
women b ecause they think that “oh, she w ill go and get pregnant” or “he
needs to support a family.” Anyway, this has been on my mind a lot as I’m
looking for a job and then during the zekr and for some time a fter, I have
none of these worries. Maybe that is off topic [she says with a laugh], I
don’t know. Anyway, I don’t have these problems women have to deal with
during the zekr.
The t rials and tribulations of the quotidian realm—here the gendered na-
ture of job searches—fall away during the zekr ritual. Her experience of the
ritual was so tied to this dilemma in her life that Sara’s entire discussion of
the zekr focused around this pressing issue. She did not discuss the sounds
of the m usic, the content of the poetry, but the injustice she feels that she
may be encountering as a w oman. In addition, Sara’s remark that her re-
sponse was “off topic” reflects a certain self-awareness that perhaps what
she is expounding on is atypical of a discussion surrounding zekr, but not
enough to backtrack on her earlier statements.
After agreeing that women face unfair biases in the workplace, in Iran
and also the world over, I turned the conversation to the topic of fana, the
extinguishing of the self. Again, I posed a broad question: How would
you describe fana? Have you experienced it? If so, can you tell me a little
about it?
The more gregarious Sara responded first: “Oh, you are asking some
really tough questions [soal-e sakhte sakht] now! Fana is really mysterious.”
She paused for a moment. “I think it is related to zekr. Fana means I’m not
thinking about myself, that I need to get a job, because I’m not even impor
tant. My job is not important. Only God is important.”
I turned to Setare, who seemed to be mulling over the question.
“Setare, what do you think?”
“Well, I agree with Sara. When you are with God there are none of these
types of concerns. You cannot have any of these concerns b ecause you are
with God.”
“What type of concerns?” I asked.
“The things that preoccupy us in this day and age [ruzegar]: money,
how we appear to others—”
“Traffic!” Sara added with a laugh. Given the often-heavy traffic in Ira
nian cities—where people schedule their days in ways to avoid peak rush
hour time—this is not an insignificant complaint to have.
108 Chapter Three

“Well, yes, even traffic,” Setare concurred. “How much time do we
spend talking, no, complaining about traffic? When we go into the state
[hal] of fana, none of this matters. We are with our beloved, merciful God.”
For Setare, fana presents an opportunity for the self to be wrested away
from the heaviness of the ordinary, from the t rials and tribulations of the
everyday, and into the arms of the beloved. And while the idea that the
extinguished self is one disengaged from the Unreal is highly prevalent
within mystical thought, it is Setare’s and Sara’s particular articulation of
the Unreal that is noteworthy. For them, fana indicates, first and foremost,
a destabilization of the social self.
I received numerous iterations of this same assertion: that to remem-
ber God is an affirmation of that which is significant in life, namely the
love of God and the presence of God, and not all that which is insignifi-
cant yet occupies most of our time and energies. When questioned as to
what exactly was being referred to as these “insignificant” things and oc-
currences, p eople responded by giving examples that included actions as
imperative as finding a job to feelings as petty as envy at a friend’s new car.
They would give examples of “insignificant” or “less worthy” t hings such
as “worrying about school,” “getting good exam scores,”14 “making money,”
“traffic,” or alternately, “the stresses of traffic,” “worrying about what o thers
think, what the neighbors think,” “worrying about elections,” “the things
I have to get to for the day,” and “dealing with my annoying coworkers,”
among other concerns. Another category within this group of insignificant
things was the negative emotions such as “jealousy” and “unhappiness”
or not being satisfied with one’s material possessions or finances. While
these certainly constitute a broad array of examples, what is impera-
tive to observe h ere is that they are all contrasted with and presented as
seemingly disparate from the realm of God. We see an amalgamation
of experiences and feelings that might be categorized as the dilemmas
of the everyday as presented as c ounter to the divine register. Following
this, to remember during the zekr ritual necessitates a certain distancing
from t hese experiences and emotions, to redirect one’s focus from long-
and short-term “practical” goals to the recognition of the presence of the
metaphysical register.
In some cases, this opportunity to distance oneself from the Unreal that
the zekr offers also allows from a break from geopolitics. Minoo, a zekr at-
tendee in her late twenties, described fana as a form of momentary relief
from worrying about a possible military strike against Iran: “When you go
into fana, you leave this world. This country with all its problems; I stop . . .

being, and just . . . go into the heart of God.15 I feel a sense of gentleness
in my body. I d on’t have fears of someone attacking the country.” In this
remarkable statement, Minoo explains how she experiences zekr as a form
of escape, leaving a world where she and her loved ones have a target on
their back, a target that is perpetually going in and out of focus depending
on the whims, moods, and election cycles of politicians a world away. Zekr
and the extinguished self are h ere a negation of the Unreal, one character-
ized as a realm full of precariousness. Indeed, Minoo’s description of the
Unreal is less a “prison of the self ” as explicated by the classical literatures
but a place (a plane?) full of vulnerability and powerlessness that exists as
a result of geopolitical tensions and domestic problems of the nation-state
(“this country with its problems”). In other words, it is not a distancing or
separation from the beloved (i.e., God) that causes anguish, or even weak
human traits such as envy and ego, it is the current sociopolitical situation
that is identified as the primary source of pain.
And still . . . is it not the distancing from God that c auses humanity to
seek power in the first place, is it not the blindness induced by inhabiting the
Unreal, of being preoccupied with “that which is not important,” as my in-
terlocutors told me, that is ultimately underlying all of the ills of the world?
This is a fair assessment and interpretation, but I fear that would be putting
words into her mouth. Upon reflecting on my notes some weeks later, I
thought to go back and ask Minoo exactly this question. In the end, I chose
not to; I did not wish to be the ethnographer with the leading questions.
My immediate response to Minoo’s statement was as follows: “So, when
you are close with God, when you see the realm of the Real, you are not
worried about these political issues between Iran and the rest of the world.”
Minoo continued: “Exactly. Fana is a type of freedom [azadi].”
“What type of freedom?”
“When I feel this gentleness in my body during zekr, it f rees me from
depression [afsordegi] and stress. When you are lost in God, there is no
stress! He is all merciful, I remember it is up to him, even if I don’t under-
stand. So I don’t worry about these threats against Iran.” For Minoo, the
extinguished self is one that is free from worry, free from fear. A simultane-
ous affirmation and overturn of the primacy of the socio-material world,
the annihilation of the self h ere is understood to be one where the self is
left intact, and certain social characteristics have been removed instead.
While t here is a contestation of things as they are, it is less an unknowing
of selfhood and more a rejection of the status quo as articulated through
mystical terminologies.
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What I have hoped to demonstrate in this section is the intriguing shift
in contemporary interpretations of the zekr ritual and fana. Namely, this
articulation of the annihilation of the self as a loss of social identities is a
drastic departure from descriptions of the same phenomenon made by
spiritual authorities, both contemporary and canonical. The self has been
reimagined as a coalescence of a series of essentialized categories deter-
mined by the larger power structures in which it resides. Obviously, nei-
ther in Iran nor elsewhere is this mode of thinking anything particularly
new. What is noteworthy, however, is that this form of discourse has en-
tered interpretations within the confines of what might be called a mystical
experience. The removal of those h uman elements/attributes (as articu-
lated by the classical literature) has been transformed into a removal from
the discourses of power.
Moving onward, I would now like to look at the experience of fana as
articulated by some other members of the Nur Street Collective, who ex-
pressed their “version of events” somewhat differently. For these others,
the talk of rupture, escape and, most importantly, the sociopolitical realm
was exchanged for discussions of transformation and nonexistence (na-
boodi). More specifically, they would explain their experiences through
the poetico-theological language found in the canonical texts discussed
earlier in the chapter. Their explorations of fana and zekr do not utilize
the language of social identities or make mention of geopolitics, but in-
stead revolve around what might be called more “abstract” registers. The
question then arises: How do understandings of the self between the two
groups compare? And finally, how do these contrasting visions of fana fit
into broader notions of subjecthood within Iranian modernity today? To
answer these questions, I turn first to discussions with those interlocutors
whose interpretations align more closely with the canonical literature.
Fana as Appearance of the Real
Abdullah Khan was one of the oldest individuals who attended the Nur
Street zekrs. He had the facial hair of Sufis of a bygone era, with a prodi-
giously full beard and curled mustache, now gone white with age. He had
grown up in a nearby village and had little formal education, but as a young
man had briefly studied at the foot of a Sufi master (pir), one who was ca-
pable of miraculous things: “My pir could fly,” Abdullah Khan said, “I saw it
with my own eyes. One day he visited Imam Ali on one of his night flights,

and after that he could make the blind see. Other ailments too, but he was
a specialist in vision.” Abdullah Khan was so moved by this man that he
wished to devote his life to study u nder him, which in t hose days, and for
this particular group, meant becoming a student (murid) and going to live
in the Sufi meeting place (khaneqah) full-time, but his father told him that
Sufis (darvish-ha) d on’t amount to anything, and that he should get mar-
ried and start a family. Even now, decades later, Abdullah Khan shook his
head wistfully as he recalled the directives of his father: “I could not bear
to disobey him, so I did just that. But I shouldn’t bemoan the past, I have
a wonderful wife and children instead.” He was now retired and lived in a
modest home with his wife Kolsoom. They had grown children, grand-
children, and one great-grandchild. Despite the f amily life he had chosen,
he retained a keen interest in mysticism (tasavvuf) his entire life. “I wasn’t
able to become a student (taleb), but still, in my heart, I have always been
a darvish.”
And the zekr for him was an integral part.
“In those days we had no radio, no telev ision. If we wanted to listen
to music we had to play it ourselves! Th ere was a boy who played the daf,
and we would gather and say zekr! How wonderful it was [Che ghadr aali
bood]!”16
“I wanted to speak a little about the remembrance of God [zekr-e
khoda],” I said. Abdullah Khan gave me a skeptical look: “Well, what do
you want to know? The remembrance of God is the remembrance of God.”
“Well—” I started.
“See, you c an’t think about it so much. You have to feel it [hess] to r eally
understand zekr; if you must think, you must think with your heart. The
answer is already there, in your heart. If! If! If you can access it. You said
your field is anthropology, no?”
In Persian, anthropology is translated as ensan-shenasi, with the word
“ensan” typically understood as “human,” so it can read as “the knowing
of humans.”
“But the t hing is . . . you can never know humans, right? Never! Only
God knows! And of course, we d on’t know what God knows e ither. This is
what we must remember too when we remember God. We are lost in him
and remember that which is in our hearts. You must remember with e very
single cell of your body! Not only during the zekr ceremony [marasem], but
when you do your prayers, when you go buy bread, always!” Here zekr is
understood as an occurrence that can and should happen at the most quo-
tidian moments; it is not a phenomenon that is relegated to the time and
112 Chapter Three

place of the ceremony at all. Such thinking is in line with many injunctions
in Islamic—not just Sufi—thought that the remembrance of God must be a
constant activity in one’s life. Still, t here is a contrast h ere with the language
of rupture that other interlocutors used to describe the zekr ceremony.
On another visit, Abdullah Khan related a story about how he some-
times would hold a silent zekr by himself. “When the children were young,
many years ago, we would sleep on the roof in the summer, before we had
this air conditioning. Sometimes that was when I would have wonderful
zekr, under the stars, I would be in another world. It would become another
world.”
To “be in another world” versus “it would become another world.”
Making a distinction as subtle as it is powerful, Abdullah Khan spoke the
statements with barely a pause between them, self-correcting almost im-
mediately. The former assertion indicates an ontological relocation of the
individual; the latter, a broader ontological shift, one of an entire plane of
existence. His words evoke the power of the transformative effective of
meditation (fekr va zekr), a practice of mystics from time immemorial. I
wondered then what the necessity of the zekr ritual was, and particularly
its music, if such experiences could be had by oneself, with only the calm
of the night sky as guidance.
“Is this diff erent from reciting prayers [du’a]?” I asked. “The silent zekr?”
A silent zekr usually involves individuals repeating a prayer or phrase or
word to themselves in their head.
“Yes, of course! Zekr requires more concentration [tamarkoz]. I don’t
say prayers the same way.” I will leave our discussions of the role of music
for later in this chapter.
I asked about his thoughts on fana. He paused for a bit, stroking his
beard: “Fana is nonexistence; it is the creation of nothing. So that you
might then be filled with something. That something is baqa. Do you know
baqa?” I did, but asked him to explain it so I could understand his inter-
pretation. “Baqa is the other half of fana. You enter into baqa. You are no
longer yourself; you don’t exist!”
“What happens to you then? Do you feel [hess] anything? Do you think
again?”
“What happens? I d on’t exist!” He paused. “Sometimes I feel [figura-
tively] intoxicated [mast], I am in the tavern of ruin.” “Tavern of ruin” is
a very common phrase used in Persian poetry, alternately interpreted as
experiencing a darkness of the soul, a heightened emotional state, or a mo-
ment of transformation, among other things.

I wondered later if my question of the use of “feeling” was too lead-
ing. “I am ruined in the ruins [dar kharabat kharab-am].” H ere, Abdullah
Khan invoked a phrase that is common within Persian poetry that means,
crudely translated: “I am drunk or ecstatic [i.e., ruined] in the h ouse of
drink or the tavern [the ruins].”
“Do you remember it?”
“Of course! If only I could have that mindset all the time!”
His conviction was palpable, infectious even. His responses to my
questions took the form of advice and directive, a style that is not at all
unusual for an older person answering the queries of a younger person
in Iran, regardless of content or gender. Throughout our discussions, he
described zekr and fana as forms of transformations of subjectivity, of
an intoxicated and/or nonexistent self. Absent was any mention at all of
the socio-material realm. If I wished to understand experiences of con
temporary Iran vis-à-v is my conversation with Abdullah Khan, I would
be hard-pressed to say I learned anything. And yet, perhaps that is exactly
the point. Unlike the experience of fana for Setare, Sara, and Minoo, the
socio-material world is irrelevant for Abdullah Khan when he is in a state
(hal). He speaks instead of nonexistence, of the tavern of ruin. There is
not calmness (aramesh) h ere, as my other interlocutors spoke of, but a
frenzied intoxication (masti). The fact that he advises that we all must at-
tempt to invoke such a state during quotidian moments like buying bread
speaks to a belief in theories of immanence, not transcendence. Ultimately,
Abdullah Khan’s views on fana reflect not only a different interpretation of
the annihilation of self, but a different understanding of the structuring of
the world. For him, the socio-material world is, in fact, something that can
fade into the background/disappear during fana rather than give shape to
the experience as a whole.
I also spent time with another individual who had similar views con-
cerning zekr and fana as Abdullah Khan. Cyrus was in his twenties and held
a graduate degree in psychology but was working in his uncle’s flower shop
while he contemplated pursuing a PhD. I had a few conversations with
him, and each time we met in a park, where he asked his fiancée Zohreh
to join us so that “I might be more comfortable,” meaning he feared that
I, as an unmarried woman, might feel uncomfortable meeting with a man
alone in public. (While I’m sure Cyrus, who was unfailingly polite even
by exacting Iranian standards of politesse, was indeed concerned for my
comfort level, I soon realized that our conversations were also a way for
114 Chapter Three

him and his fiancée to be together outside of the umbrella of the f amily. I
was more than happy to be the cover for these sweet reunions; it was the
least an anthropologist could do.) Unlike many of the other young Sufis
I encountered, he had some more familiarity with mysticism due to some
relatives he had who were also Sufis (darvish). When I asked if his relatives
also attended the gatherings at Nur Street I received a curt but polite “No,”
which made me hesitant to ask any further about them.
Cyrus described zekr to me as the following: “The goal of remembrance
is the remembrance of God. Of course, God is always with us, but when
we remember, we become more aware of His presence.” For Cyrus, zekr
operates as a catalyst to remind one of the omnipresence of metaphysics:
an activation of memory that results in the affirmation of the idea of an a
priori supreme being: that which was always there. The guarantee of the
unseen companion, one who, in the eyes of the faithful, is there to guide
and protect, never wavering.
His fiancée Zohreh, who did not attend the zekr, interjected here: “But
shouldn’t we always be remembering God? In all the moments of the day?
It shouldn’t be just during the zekr!”
“Of course, it definitely s houldn’t be. We need to be d oing it all the time,
that is of course ideal. But I would be lying if I said if I am remembering God
as fiercely as I do during the zekr all other hours of the day. I try not to be in
the prison of the nafs, I try to see with my third eye as much as possible, but I
cannot do it. This is my shortcoming. During the zekr, though, I am reminded
of what is possible when I do remember God with my entire being.”
Zohreh seemed both charmed and unconvinced. “Well, it seems a bit
like cheating to me,” she said with a laugh.
“Well, excuse me if I am not as pure of heart as you, madam!” Cyrus
replied, also with a laugh. “You see Seema, I have a saintly fiancée!”
“How lucky you are!” I concurred. “You should be r eally thankful, you
know.” After a bit more gentle ribbing at Cyrus’s expense, I returned to the
matter at hand: “Now, you just remember God with your entire being?
What does that mean?”
“It means that y ou’re able to remember God, to call His name.” A pause.
“When you forget yourself, it’s like your lower soul [nafs-e amarra] is no
longer blocking your ears from the hearing the truth [haqiqat]. All the
lesser attributes [sefat] are wiped away so I can become closer to u nion
with God [tawhid]. Now, I do not think all my attributes are wiped away,
nor that I am completely lost in God, but . . . maybe a little closer.”

I asked him too about the “prison of the nafs” (zendan-e nafs). This is
another relatively common phrase used in the mystical literatures, describ-
ing the self as a form of prison from which one must break free.
“The prison of the nafs is . . . see, it is the tragedy of being in the veiled
world. We have the ability to see beyond, or at least a little bit,” he said with
a laugh. “It is a prison that we have made for ourselves by not remembering
God. We are trapped by this type of consciousness. Of course, we w ill only
be reunited with God in death. But . . . I am closest to being the type of per-
son I want to be in fana.” He seems contemplative, almost a little melancholy.
“Separation from the beloved . . . it’s r eally difficult, no?” Zohreh teased
him again. “How hard it all is! Now, I am not God of course but I can be
your beloved too!”
“You see, Seema? What I have to put up with?” Cyrus laughed.
Despite phrasing it in the form of gentle mocking, Zohreh’s statement
about “the beloved” reveals her familiarity with mystical thought, as Cyrus
was referring to the separation from God that all humans are said to experi-
ence while inhabiting the Unreal. Like Abdullah Khan, Cyrus’s understand-
ing of fana speaks to a type of transformation of the self rather than a break
from the socio-material world. His demeanor and the language he uses,
“the prison of the soul,” is more melancholy than the ecstatic enthusiasm
of Abdullah Khan, but both are classic descriptors of what happens when
one recognizes their distance from God (in the case of Cyrus) or when they
become closer to the divine (as Abdullah Khan does). Both are reflecting
upon the unknowability of God, positioning themselves in that moment
and place where the limitations of human thought are revealed, which in
this instance is through the recognition of the limits of the contained self. It
is only when the “prison of the soul” is no more, when subjectivity becomes
dissolved through fana, when they are in “nonexistence,” that they are able
to become closer to God. If ma‘rifat is the contestation of the finality of
thought, then the unknowing of the self for Cyrus and Abdullah and certain
other interlocutors is the contestation of the bounded self.
Lastly, I think it fair to say that the socio-material realm is of concern for
neither during their zekr rituals. When the self is extinguished, when the
self becomes an unknown entity, it is a moment when the socio-material
world is not overturned or destroyed but rendered irrelevant. And to ren-
der something irrelevant is perhaps even more powerful than labeling it
something to be overcome. In other words, the opposite of love is not hate,
but indifference. The veiled world is not escaped, but dissolved into the
unveiled world entirely.
116 Chapter Three

Return to Self versus the Disappearance of the Self
At this point I would like to take a moment to pull back from this Sufi com-
munity and to turn our attention to broader intellectual trends in Iran, for
these destabilized selves have been seen before in Iranian discourses. In-
deed, outside of mystical traditions, the questioning of the self as an entity
has come up throughout the twentieth c entury (if we are to restrict our-
selves to the modern era). There are of course the obvious parallels in the
writings of esoterically minded Shi‘i clerics like Allameh Tabatabai, who
has a not insubstantial number of writings on nonexistence and nonexis
tent selves. And while parsing through the differences between the vicis-
situdes of subjecthood as articulated by Shi‘i clerics and lay Sufi Shi‘is is
certainly worthwhile, what I wish to focus upon here are destabilized sub-
jectivities as expressed in the writings of some other Iranian intellectuals
slightly further afield from the realm of the ulama.
In his highly influential essay “Westoxification” [Gharbzadegi],17 Jalal
Al-e Ahmad writes of the bi-simayi or “facelessness” of Iranian youth. In his
view, young people have become unmoored from their own religious and
cultural touchstones, replacing them with an attraction to the machina-
tions of the West without understanding the reasons behind their attrac-
tions. This uncritical unmooring results in a generation of “empty selves,”
who have lost “any sense of self-hood.” Al-e Ahmad uses the language of
ephemerality to explain the status of these lost souls, describing them
as “faces on the water,” and “particles suspended in the air,” phrases that
would not seem out of place in Sufi discourses on destabilized subjectivity.
Of course, these “empty Iranian selves” of Al-e Ahmad are seen as
failures—failures of the nation state, of the ruling classes, as well as the short-
comings of the intellectual capacities of the individual. In contrast, Sufis who
are “emptied” of selfhood are seen as advanced, having achieved something
that could, crudely, resemble a “success” on the path toward tawhid. Al-e
Ahmad mourns a “faceless” generation devoid of authenticity (bi-esalat).
The Sufis see annihilated selves as finally freed from the shackles of the Un-
real in favor of moving into the Real. The “Real” is an imperfect antonym to
“inauthenticity” but it is clear that there are contrasting views of emptied
selves at play h ere.
As Vahdat and o thers have pointed out, Al-e Ahmad saved his harshest
criticism (of which there were many) for the secular intelligentsia.18 That
said, it was not the idea of secular intellectualism that he saw as the broader
dilemma. In fact, he considered an increase in intellectualism and general

critical thinking as the solution to t hese lost selves. A lost subjecthood is
thus seen as something that needs to be restored, fully and wholly, rather
than as an opportunity for an existential transformation as per the Sufis.
Another prominent Iranian intellectual, Ali Shariati, also explored the
idea of lost subjecthood in a number of writings on the theme of “return
to the self.”19 Considered to be one of the preeminent ideologues of the
Iranian Revolution, it is difficult to overestimate Shariati’s influence on
twentieth-century Iranian thought.20 Most well known for advocating a
revolutionary sensibility based on Shi‘i history and theology shot through
with socialist ideologies, Shariati espoused an idea of “return” that is a
more nuanced and complex version of Al-e Ahmad’s. Like Al-e Ahmad,
Shariati views Iranian subjectivity as having been eroded to nothing in the
face of colonial violence. A return to self, he argues, would entail a “return
to culture” and “a recognition of our self as we are.”21 Selfhood is in a sense
in need of a restoration, one that is based upon the culture and religion of
a people that was always already there.
While they agree about the need to wrest Iranian subjectivity from the
influence of colonial powers and the existential toll that such influence
takes, Shariati and Al-e Ahmad diverge in terms of the temporal dimen-
sions of their proposals. For Al-e Ahmad, the problem of the “faceless
selves” involves a restoring of ties to the past; it is thus less a transforma-
tion of the self than it is a reestablishing of something lost. Shariati’s under-
standing of lost selves vis-à-vis the past is a bit more complicated.
Arash Davari has eloquently explored Shariati’s anticolonial strategies
in light of his conversations with Frantz Fanon alongside his discussion of
martyrdom (shahadat), which may also be considered a form of annihi-
lation of the self. The comparison is of course complicated, however, by
ideas of sacrifice, where the annihilating of the self in the context of mar-
tyrdom occurs for the collective good rather than for the individual. And
yet both, according to Shariati, involve a broader transformation of the
self. H
ere I quote Shariati’s writing cited by Davari. In Shariati’s words, a
martyr [shahid] is
no longer a human, a person, an individual. He is thought. He was an in-
dividual who sacrificed himself in the pursuit of his thought and as a re-
sult has been transformed into thought itself. For this reason, we do not
recognize Husayn as a particular person who is the son of Ali. Husayn is
a name that signifies Islam, justice, charismatic leadership, and tawhid. . . .
As a result, he has become an absolute sanctity himself. All that remains of
118 Chapter Three

him is a name. His substance is no longer an individual. He has become a
source and maktab [school of thought]—meaning he has become tanta-
mount to a maktab.22
There is a transformative elem ent to this extinguishment of self;

t here is another form of nothingness here. More significantly, as Davari
explains, Shariati sees the ability to carry out martyrdom as dependent
upon the individual’s capability (1) to recognize the need for martyrdom,
and (2) to see themselves as capable of such an act. Davari writes: “Shari-
ati’s conception of shahadat constitutes a direct call to the masses to act as
readers of themselves and thus to ‘return’ to who they are in the now.”23
This “return” is less a restoration of a break with the past as suggested by
Al-e Ahmad, and more one that requires a self-recognition/recognition of
an a priori self. This is deeply resonant with mystical understandings of
knowledge of the divine as already being present within the heart of the
individual, it is only a m atter of how they might access what was t here all
along.
This brings us to the temporal aspect of Shariati’s argument. Davari
writes: “Instead of imagining a return to a historically factual past, [Shari-
ati and Fanon] argued for a ‘return’ to a self that exists immediately in
the present but is yet to be realized.”24 The self that needs to be restored
exists in a state of latency, neither past nor fully future but wholly present.
In this way, the return is a restoration or fulfillment of a potential that is
already t here. In her exploration of the relationship between the ideas
of Shariati and Walter Benjamin, Mina Khanlarzadeh offers thoughts on
Shariati’s ideas of futurity,25 writing that for Shariati “the f uture resides,
rather, at the heart of the present in the form of a messianic longing for a
more egalitarian f uture that is not far from the present.”26 In other words,
the future is already here, or perhaps almost already here (and the almost
is key), existing in an intimate, affective relationship with the present,
with both f uture and present comprising and forming one another simul
taneously. Given this complex temporal matrix with which he approaches
the idea of “return,” it is clear that Shariati’s understanding of formula-
tions of the self and “return to the self ” is not as straightforward as one
might assume.
And so, one might ask what would Shariati think of these Sufis, and
their thoughts on subjectivity? Behrooz Ghamari-Tabrizi has investigated
Shariati’s thoughts on Sufism, both in its order-based, “organized” formu-
lation as well as mystical thought itself, examining what attracted him to

mysticism as well as what repelled him from it. Ghamari-Tabrizi writes
how Shariati undertook exercises in solitary isolation as a young man,
composing “desert contemplations” (khaviriyyat), and identifying with
Sufi saints like Rumi and Hallaj. Later in his life, however, he expressed
frustration at the tendency of Sufi orders to seemingly ignore the injus-
tices of the world around them. And yet Shariati never disparaged mysti-
cal epistemologies themselves, Ghamari-Tabrizi describes: “He rejected an
organizational logic in Sufism, not its embrace in the plurality of mystical
experiences.”27 I have also written about Shariati’s mystical predilections,28
especially the ethos of becoming and transformation that permeates all his
work; w hether it is referring to a transformation or a “return” or the upend-
ing of the unjust status quo of society, his work is overflowing with ideas of
“development,” “evolution,” “growth,” “perfection,” and many other calls to
change. In this regard, Shariati shares an affinity with the mystics, as both
he and they are committed to an existence that is predicated upon the
fact that only with radical change, and all the labor that accompanies it—
spiritual, intellectual, physical—a change that must occur on what Shariati
calls the “existential” level, can one fulfill one’s true potential in life.
And yet still, it is clear there are differences between the stance of my
interlocutors and those of Shariati. For while Shariati sees the transforma-
tion of the self and society as related to one another,29 my interlocutors
expressed a much more ambivalent or indifferent stance toward the role
of society as it relates to their experiences of fana (even though I surmise
most of the Sufis would propose that undergoing zekr, working toward
tawhid, would generally be a “good” thing for society).
And so, a fter such a long fight for a restoration of the collective Iranian
psyche, where so many people struggled and died so that Iranians may be
free to be themselves, to be their whole selves . . . what would Al-e Ahmad
and Shariati make of these Sufis extolling the virtues of annihilated selves?
Would they shake their heads at individuals praising fana’s ability to trans-
port themselves away from the sociopolitical world of contemporary Iran
or others who bypass any talk of “profane”/worldly matters altogether?
If this ethnography took place in 1971, for example, when most intel-
lectuals viewed any apolitical activities contemptuously or at least dis-
missively, they might have viewed the Nur Street Collective with some
derision. Perhaps they would have seen them as irresponsible, ignoring
the suffering of the masses and assaults against Iranian identity and au-
tonomy, indulging instead in esoteric practices that have no real impact on
the sociopolitical world. Certainly, many of the clergy in Iran w
ere accused
120 Chapter Three

of such a mindset at the time, viewed as having their heads buried in the
proverbial sand, obsessed with arcane rules concerning purity rituals while
the world burned.
Forty years a fter the revolution, the fear of colonial influence is not what
it was. It is still present, of course, especially in the form of fear of mili-
tary invasion, and the power of empire is experienced e very day u nder the
international sanctions imposed by the United States. But the imperialist
powers’ abilities to corrupt the soul or psyche of the nation or its youth is
no longer a priority of many Iranian intellectuals, leftists or otherw ise.30
Even as Iranians grapple with their difficult relationship with the United
States and their allies, and as Iranian government officials frequently in-
voke legacies of colonialism and foreign interference, the situation is un-
deniably different now than in the era of Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, the
erstwhile ally of the United States (however complicated his allyship
was). There is of course a healthy discourse on what it means to be Iranian
today, about the identity of the nation, what it stands for, and so forth,
but I would argue that the Iranian self is no longer regarded by members
of the intelligentsia as under existential threat from outsiders in the same
as it was in the prerevolutionary era, and thus Shariati’s and Al-e Ahmad’s
concerns are not exactly applicable in the way they once were. It is in this
way that the activities of the Nur Street Collective might be viewed as a
postrevolutionary phenomenon. Perhaps it is only when the self is whole
that it may be erased at all.
Sufi Aesthetic Theories: Unknowing of Body
Therefore Sufism is not a religion, nor a sect,

only music, rhythm, the inner vibration.
seyed mustafa azmayesh, morvarid-e sufi-gari (2008)
I live by tangible experience and not by logical explanation. . . .

There all possibilities are exhausted; the “possible” slips away
and the impossible prevails.
georges bataille, “the torment” (1998)
“You must listen with every single cell within your body! You must remember
God with every single cell within your body!” Abdullah Khan told me this
with such fervor, his eyes widening and his index finger pointed skyward,

that I was almost taken aback by the intensity of it all. He was a passionate
man in general, but this discussion of the body seemed particularly urgent,
as he insisted on this type of bodily listening.
“You must look inside your heart. It is the heart that knows. Not the
mind. God is in the heart and body [badan].”
“The body as well?” I inquired. The heart as the abode of the divine
was a common enough refrain but the role of the body was much more
contested.
“Yes, of course! The heart is in the body, so the way to the heart is
through the body. You see there are layers. First the mind, concentration
[tamarkoz] and things like that, then the body, breathing [nafas-keshidan]
and listening [sama], and moving [tekun khordan], then the heart. Each
one is a layer, until you are living in the world of the heart [alam-e del], you
reach the knowledge of the heart. I’m pretty sure t here are other layers but
that is enough for students [taleban] like us.”
Layers upon layers. In Abdullah Khan’s statement there emerges a
clear hierarchy of faculties: mind, body, heart. These faculties—the ratio-
nal, the sensorial-epistemological, and what may be called the cultivated
instinctual—constitute the ideal progression by which to achieve tawhid.
While t here is much to be said about this progression, or the idea of
progression or stages in general, what I would like to focus on here is the
second stage: listening and the body, and what type of unknowing/non-
knowledge they might engender. Indeed, all my interlocutors insisted on
the importance of music and listening within fana. Although there are cer-
tain groups of Sufis in Iran, most notably the Soltanalishahi Order, who do
not utilize m usic at all, the zekr of the Nur Street Collective always incor-
porated some sort of musical element. And it was this musical component
that they saw as vital to engaging the body in ways that might otherw ise
not be possible. A number of the organizers of the group, including Irfan
Ahmad, had spent some time reading materials that discussed theories of
listening and music. These included the writings of mystical premodern
thinkers like al-Ghazzali and Hujwiri, the contemporary Sufi sheikh and
expat Seyed Mustafa Azmayesh, the University of Tehran professor Nas-
rollah Pourjavady, as well as the British neurologist Oliver Sacks and his
book Musicophilia.
This section hence examines what might it entail to understand the zekr
as a sensorial and corporeal experience, and how mystical epistemologies
might simultaneously influence and be influenced by these aesthetic en-
counters. In order to pursue this inquiry, it w ill ultimately be necessary
122 Chapter Three

to posit the zekr at that strangest of junctures: the instance between the
material and immaterial divide.
In this section, I w
ill address the following questions: What is the role
of music in the transformation of the self? Why is sound necessary to dis-
lodge subjectivity, and what specific qualities does the auditory possess
to carry out such a lofty task? In other words, how is the destabilization
of subjectivity achieved vis-à-vis sound, that defining characteristic of the
zekr ceremony? And how are listening practices and the body implicated
in this process of fana, if at all?
As a starting point into this exploration of the convergence of the mate-
rial and metaphysical realms, let us begin more specifically, with the aes-
theticization of the verbal/vocal: that which is uttered, rather than those
aspects of the ritual that may be construed as more traditionally “musical.”
Indeed, if our goal here is to disentangle and isolate the sensorial dimen-
sion, the physical surface of things, the physical sound of the words articu-
lated aloud must surely be held accountable.
Voice, Utterance, and Comprehensibility
“Hu!”
If there is a word that is most closely aligned with contemporary mysti-
cal practice, it is this breathy and assertive monosyllable. Short for Allah-
hu, one of the ninety-nine names of God, when spoken aloud, especially
in the declarative form, the long “o” sound of “Hu” draws out a long breath
from the speaker, deep from the chest. This is not unintentional, as the
primary organizer of the Nur Street Collective, Irfan Ahmad, told me: “It
is absolutely necessary to engage the body [badan] during the zekr, other
wise you are just listening passively. When we say “Hu!,” that c auses us to
breathe more deeply and engage the body more, you have to engage with
your whole body during the zekr.”
Other frequently voiced phrases include “Ya Ali,” “Ya Ali Madad,” [“Ali
help me”], or “Ya Hussein,” “Ya Fatima.” (These utterances of the names of
Imams are absolutely not exclusive to Sufis but invoked endlessly by many
Iranians. At this very moment that you read t hese words I would wager
that someone, somewhere in Iran is saying “Ya Hussein!,” either because
the spirit moves them or because of more quotidian matters such as lift-
ing a heavy box.) I appreciated the individualized takes on these standard
phrases as well. One friend of mine took pleasure not only in inserting

“Hu” in more casual conversation, but would also say out loud numbers
of spiritual significance—numbers used in textual and decorative mate-
rials, but not usually used as invocations—peppering her dialogue with
“Hu 121,”31 sometimes causing her friends to roll their eyes at her playful
exuberance.
Within the zekr ritual, “Hu” is the most frequently invoked phrase by
far. Sometimes it is repeated over and over by all assembled, forming a
rhythmic invocation that ties together all present in a way that only group
chanting might do. Other times it is individuals who w ill speak a single
“Hu” at random moments during the ceremony, sometimes loudly, some-
times u nder their breath, so that the music is punctuated by these sponta-
neous declarations, popping up h ere and t here as if enthusiastic songbirds
had infiltrated the space.
Irfan tended to use group chants with smaller groups of people, finding
that such vocalizations tend to get unwieldy in large gatherings such as the
one described in the beginning of this chapter. “Those zekrs are open to
anyone, so you have people who are totally unfamiliar with mysticism
[tasavvuf] and it can get to be a big mess [gharashmish].”
“They can’t keep the rhythm?” I asked.
“No, they probably can, but they might get confused or maybe even
intimidated. ‘Oh what are these crazy darvishes d oing,’ ” he said. “It’s better
that we keep the vocalizations to those who know a bit more, so we don’t
have to be distracted or worried about the new folks, and just focus on the
zekr.”
We also spoke about remembrance and repetition. Equally important
as the invocation of the phrases is the repetition of them, namely to fulfill
the following two purposes: (1) to conjure the act of constant remembrance,
recollection, and mindfulness, a phenomenon that I will discuss later; and
(2) to experience the words in such a way that they become an entry point
into an alternative form of consciousness and the experience of the divine.
Upon immersing oneself in a ceaseless repetition of words, simultaneously
speaking them and hearing them, receiving them and producing them, it
becomes more and more difficult to treat them as self-contained signs as
they move ever closer to reappropriating themselves as empty signifiers.
It is perhaps not the word or phrases themselves that are so important,
but the repetition therein that is imperative to the task at hand. Thus, as
vocalization becomes a mode of repetition, these words lose their meaning
and become sounds, as al-Ghazzali writes: “Rather, [the Sufi’s] song itself
does not reside in the literal meaning of the verse . . . for they are affected
124 Chapter Three

by listening to the sound of the hautboy, even though it has no meaning.
It is for this reason that those persons who do not know Arabic are af-
fected by listening to Arabic verses.”32 Hence, it is the experiential element
of the affect of the speaking-act, conveyed by its sound, that emerges here
as the ultimate goal of this listening, rather than the linguistic meaning
of the words themselves. Herein lies the radical potential of the poetico-
experiential invocation, one that suspends itself in the reverie of language
and song, thereby activating the auditory imagination of the divine.
More importantly, however, this transference does not occur passively,
whereupon the listener is made to surrender to some form of sacred music,
but rather is characterized as a supremely active reflection, such that the
listener must demand their critical faculties to fully engage with these intri-
cate sounds, as al-Ghazzali suggests: “It may also be that one understands
something of the Arabic verses that are not in their meaning, but what one
imagines them to be.”33 In other words, the knowledge or meaning that
may be generated from the reception of the verses is not dependent upon
their predetermined, dogmatic definition, but rather the listening subject’s
imagined interpretation of them.34 Furthermore, this statement should be
not seen as an advocacy or an instance of logocentrism—again, the sign
remains arbitrary—but rather that it is the very arbitrariness contained
within language that is significant; t hese words are no longer words, but a
spell. Through the process of repetition, through the emphasis of arbitrary
sound over sense, the immediacy of meaning is destabilized through the
imagination’s ability to undermine the very totality of meaning itself. It is
not understanding that is important h ere but, as I w ill attempt to further
explain, the experiential as a means to come into contact with the incom-
prehensibility of the divine.
The subversive potential in this observation is seemingly enormous;
“meaning” has become synonymous with “the i magined,” various modes of
desire may contaminate t hings, and an ordinary listener has been granted
the role of interpreter. It this invocation of the projection of desire and
interpretation that al-Ghazzali finds so appealing within the zekr ritual,
remarking that it is only within these spaces that such modes of spiritual
engagement are possible. As he writes: “For each person t here is a condi-
tion which is e ager to hear a verse suited to his own state . . . it is not proper
that you interpret the Qur’an according to your own whim and alter the
meaning of the Qur’an.”35 At the same time, even as he advocates what
may be perceived as a slightly heretical exercise, he warns consistently of
the risks this critical listener faces: the ever-present potential for indulging

carnal desire,36 and the chance of arrogant interpretation,37 as he writes:
“the danger of m usic to one’s love of God Most High is tremendous.”38 It
seems, then, that this act of recollection is not one for the faint of heart,
but rather for those of a select constitution, those able to withstand the
temptation to deviate.
Aesthetic Exposure, Revelation, and Concealment
Having addressed the use of vocalization in the zekr ritual, what I have
hoped to impress upon the reader thus far is that the significance of the
material nature of both these disparate phenomena is not that they pro-
vide an empirical manifestation of metaphysical meaning, but something
quite dissimilar. Ultimately, it is the remembrance of that incomprehensibil-
ity of the divine that is actualized through listening, a radical form of im-
manence acutely experienced but never fully comprehended. Through an
encounter with the aesthetic, knowledge of the divine becomes manifest
as a mode of experience, and not as an instance of reason. Hence, listening
emerges as a catalyst by which to undergo experience, whereupon know-
ing (reason) evolves into a form of nonknowing (experience). Similarly,
put in less poetic language by Nurbakhsh: “sama means the ‘realization
and discovery of mystical states which is necessarily accompanied by the
loss of the faculties of retention and judgement in one’s internal conscious-
ness.’ ”39 Consequently, as we w ill explore in further detail, remembrance
within zekr manifests itself as a form of “realization,” whereby a new form
of epistemological awareness allows one to “discover” the divine through
a process of forgetting and unknowing.
Indeed, as al-Ghazzali notes, understanding is only the first “station”
within listening; more important is the state of ecstasy (wajd) that is
unveiling: “Know that there are three stations in music: first, understand-
ing; second, ecstasy; and third, motion.”40 Thus, in m usic, knowledge is
apprehended by the ecstatic, definitive comprehension overtaken by the
elusiveness of the divine, until all cognitive modes are caught up in a volatile
interplay between knowing and not-knowing, awareness and unawareness.
Further elaborating upon the ecstatic phase, al-Ghazzali writes:
ose sublime states which begin to attach to them from the invisible world
Th
because of the music are called “Ecstasy.” It may [have] happened that their
hearts become as cleansed and purified as silver which is placed in fire. That
126 Chapter Three

usic throws the fire into the heart and removes its tarnishings. It may be
m
that that which is attained through music is not to be attained with much
self-discipline. And music activates that mystery of the relationship which
is between a h uman being and the world of spirits u ntil it becomes possi
ble for him to receive everything from that world so that he becomes un-
aware of all that t here is in this world. His limbs may also falter and he may
become unconscious.41
ere then emerges al-Ghazzali’s philosophical positioning of music as a

H
mode of perceptive and cognitive transformation, one wherein aesthetic
experience is used to reveal the “mystery” of God, demarcated here as a
state of “ecstasy.” Indeed, the state of wajd materializes “because of the
music,” such that the auditory is posited as a mode of “activation,” the au-
ditory intermediary to the divine event. Furthermore, the invocations of
“cleansing,” “burning,” and “purification” clearly indicate that some pro
cess of transformation is at work h ere, a physical alteration demanded of
the listener so that they are prepared “to receive.” Finally, by noting the am-
biguity of the relationship between “the human” and “the spirit world,” as
well as stressing the power of materiality within the knowing/unknowing
act—that is “until it becomes possible for him to receive everything from
the world so that he becomes unaware of all that t here is in the world”—it
may be argued that al-Ghazzali is putting forth a theory of immanence.
Everything is put into effect by the listening act, just as the auditory meta-
physical event impresses itself upon everything in turn. In other words,
what first happens is that listening to music sets the condition for a form
of hyper immediacy with the world, and that this new awareness some-
how engenders an erasure of that surrounding reality. This would evoke
that “first station” of music, understanding, though reinscribed in a convo-
luted procedure of “unawareness.” However, as the zekr continues and the
vocalizations of remembrance are uttered again and again, the disparate
kinesthetic elements begin to be experienced in such a way as to reflect
the immaterial nature of the divine experience, as well as the immaterial
nature of perception.
Again, this is not simply the manifestation of belief, the metaphysics of
aesthetic presence, but rather a form of exposure to the experiential non-
knowledge of the divine. Undoubtedly, by altering the perception of time,
the voice, and (as we will soon see) the body through the listening act, it
is ultimately the affect of the aesthetic experience that proves most potent
in provoking this interface between thought and unawareness. Thus, it is

the transfigurative affect of the sensory engagement that escapes rational
empiricism, and moves metaphysics instead to the realm of the unknown.
Within the confines of sensoriality, then, we find the most immediate
way to embrace experience over reason, until the listening subject is irrevo-
cably transformed. To this end, al-Ghazzali stresses nonunderstanding in
service of the metamorphosis of self and world: “The listening to music of
this person is not in the way of understanding sublime reality; rather, when
the music touches him, that state of nonexistence and one-ness is renewed;
he becomes completely absent from himself and unaware of this world.”42
Hence, what might be obtained from this statement is that a becoming
transpires here, that a vital transformation has taken place, rather than the
absorption of knowledge.
At the same time, however, al-Ghazzali has invoked a classic dilemma
of aesthetic theory: Where does the material, sensorial aspect of aesthetic
experience begin, and the cognitive engagement of it end? In other words,
who or what is responsible for the induction of this state: is it the m usic
that lulls this listener into nonunderstanding, or is it the listener whose
critical imposition upon the auditory ultimately provokes this enterprise?
In the end, for al-Ghazzali and various others, this is a transformation that
can only take place under certain conditions; namely, that of a listener who
approaches zekr with the correct intentionality. Indeed, it is only with the
proper ethical framework in mind that one may fulfill the act of remem-
brance that defines the zekr. . . .
Eternal Beginnings: Remembrance, Forgetting, and Repetition
As stated e arlier, zekr is characterized above all e lse as an act of remem-

brance, oftentimes characterized as being “mindful” of God. Thus, at this
point I would like to investigate the way in which hal and ecstasy might
allow for such activations of memory. Moreover, I would like to see how
an encounter with the occasion of the enigma of the divine might invite
such an instance of remembrance, and how the experience of “unknowing”
might aid in such an endeavor.
To begin with, I would posit that this instance of conscious remem-
brance is felt so acutely mainly because it is arises out of an a priori moment
of forgetting. In other words, just as t here exists a constant interplay be-
tween an awareness and unawareness of the physical realm while attempt-
ing to enter hal, so too is the act of remembrance similarly entangled with
128 Chapter Three

the movements of forgetting. Just as the immanent encounter is revealed
only after the material world is concealed, so too is the willful form of rec-
ollection possible only once something has been forgotten.
In describing the particular stance of a Nimatullahi tariqa, Richard
Netton describes reminiscence as a form of inverse forgetting: “One of
the features of zekr is that it represents anamnesis, the ‘unforgetting’ of
that which, in our deepest core, we already know.”43 In this way, it may
be argued that in order to remember what was already known, what was
already felt, and perhaps even what was predetermined, one needs to “for-
get” in order to reexperience and remember the unattainable union. It is
the very unknowability made manifest in the zekr ritual that lends itself to
the act of remembrance, for when the listener is confronted with this vola-
tile epistemology of awareness/unawareness, one must constantly reas-
sert oneself within hal in order to remain focused. This is a ceaseless, will-
ful form of recollection; to constantly forget so that one might remember
all over again. To remember the love of God is essentially only the first
movement of total recollection, as a conscious remembrance would con-
sistently undermine the unknowability present within ecstasy. Schimmel
quotes the writings of Abu Nasr al-Sarraj: “ ‘ True zekr is that you for-
get your zekr’. . . . Since even the word or thought ‘O God!’ implies the
consciousness of subject and object, the last mystery of recollection is
complete silence.”44 This “mystery of recollection” is thus effectuated by
a constant entangling between remembering and forgetting, a continual
interplay characterized first and foremost by repetition. More precisely,
in order to re-create and relive the exact moment of the conscious acti-
vation of memory, without lingering for too long on the security of this
instant, the moment must reconstitute itself again and again. Within the
space of performance, linear and nonlinear temporalities exist hand in
hand.45 Executed by the endless cycle of repetition, the beginning be-
comes indistinguishable from the end, until all that remains is a dialecti-
cal interplay of initiation and conclusion. And yet, how then might such
a ritual reach a sort of definitive conclusion—are hal and wajd not con-
sidered as a means unto fana, a state of total and seemingly definitive
annihilation? In short, I would posit that this apparent contradiction is
reconciled by the intimation that fana (at least as it is interpreted here)
is a hal ahwal characterized by instability; a state of destabilization that
would apparently defy logocentrism46 in f avor of the ambiguous inter-
play of immanence,47 whereupon the finite is rendered infinite, and vice
versa.

Furthermore, this phenomenon is underscored by the fact that the ex-
istential and metaphysical dimensions of remembrance within zekr are
made manifest in its stylistic aesthetics, or as Shannon writes: “However,
closure in the zekr is never final. The qafla [closure, or lock], like musical
closure, marks a temporary pause before the opening of another section or
of another zekr, if it is the qafla of the last section. The end of the zekr itself
is not marked with any sort of finality.”48 Indeed, the cyclical and repetitive
nature of the daf drum is highly evocative of the constant vacillation be-
tween the conscious and unconscious states. Hence, what is apparent here
is that the existential and the aesthetic are inextricably intertwined, as an
encounter with the divine unknown is instantiated through an existential
engagement with sensorial experience.
Finally, it should also be noted that this articulation (internal as well as
external) of mindfulness is one driven most prominently by a willful desire
to encounter this nonunderstanding. The endurance required is not typi-
fied with what might be conceived as an exceedingly frustrating phenom-
enon, one typified by Sisyphean impossibility and indeterminacy; it is the
drive to persist in this quest for remembrance that ultimately defines the
zekr ritual—it is only out of love that one would persist. Consequently, it
is for this reason that Schimmel makes the following ostensibly innocu-
ous observation: “Zekr is the first step in the way of love; for when some-
body loves someone, he likes to repeat his name and constantly remember
him.”49
Auditory Bodies: Sama as Mimesis
Having thus far observed the zekr ritual in light of questions of subjectivity
and aesthetics, let us now turn our attention to exploring the relationship
between sama and the body, with specific attention given to the role of
motion, transfiguration, and mimesis.
Recently, t here has been much written regarding the concept of embod-
ied practice within contemporary Islam and the postcolonial context,50 as
well within more generally situated studies of ritual practice and the body.51
As such, using Talal Asad’s conviction that “abstract ideas are not opposed
to bodily practices” as a starting point,52 I would contend that this argu-
ment might be slightly altered in the instance of mysticism.53 More specifi-
cally, given the immanent potential contained within all things material—
including the body—w ithin Sufism, it would be somewhat limiting to
130 Chapter Three

simply understand zekr as an instance of “practice,” meaning a r outinized
habit or exercise possessing a similarly prescribed objective, instantiated
within a carefully prescribed context. This is not to suggest, however, that
various incarnations of the zekr rituals across the disparate tariqas do not
suggest or demand specific postures or even ritualized movements of
their practitioners (far from it). The distinction I would make is that these
“abstract ideas” arise out of a sensorial, bodily practice, rather than being
implemented within them. For example, the Naqshbandiyya Sufis decree
the following bodily engagement: “The Sufi must keep the tongue pressed
against the roof of his mouth, his lips and teeth firmly shut, and hold his
breath. Then starting with the word la, he makes it ascend from the navel
to the brain. When it has arrived at the brain the ilaha to the right shoulder
and the illa’llah to the left side, driving it forcefully into the pineal heart
through which it circulates to all the rest of the body.”54 Because of the elu-
siveness of the objective of zekr, as well as the experiential characteristics
that it entails, it would seem that to depict it as simply a manifestation of
a practice might limit or reduce its existentially transformative potential.
Thus, we might instead understand the role of the material body within
zekr as a space of metaphysical mimesis,55 and thereby implicate it as a ve-
hicle for encountering the mystery of metaphysics. To begin to explain this
idea, we might first look to one of most basic tenets of the zekr: Once the
critical listener is engaged, the swaying body begins to essentially mimic
the rhythms and dynamics of the music involved. From here, we look to
understand what Seyed Mustafa Azmayesh calls the “inner music” or, as he
suggests quite literally, the sounds of the heartbeat: “The Sufi seekers are
intensely interested in the inner m usic in their body, the inner vibration
coming from the source of their hearts. They try to listen to their heart, and
try to hear their heart beat. This heartbeat reminds them of something of
their origin.”56 The purpose, then, of the instrumental m usic is not to act
as a spiritual guide in and of itself, but as a means to reveal the internal per-
cussions of the body: “Every rhythm, every melody is like a bridge to the
heartbeat. When you play a certain rhythm for two minutes your mental
and spiritual state changes.”57 As such, it is for this reason that the zekr
mainly utilizes the percussive music of the daf (hollow drum) as its sole
instrumentation: the staccato beat of the drum mimics the percussive beat
of the heart, and it is to the batteries of this latter sound that people dictate
their movements: “On the path [of erfan] we work on this transformation
by certain music, certain rhythms and the inner m usic.”58 Therefore, listen-
ing to this type of music is able to make one conscious of these other wise

unconscious bodily rhythms, therein offering what we might see here as
a strange form of reverse or auto mimesis. In other words, through con-
tact with a foreign substance (this instrumental music), the rhythm of the
body’s movements mimics the rhythm of its own heartbeat: an externaliza-
tion of what was there all along.
Furthermore, it should be noted that this revelation-through-mimicry
is of course certainly not a stable phenomenon nor one that comes easily,
as the participants need to reenact t hese motions again and again, inces-
santly repeating the bodily gestures, as this newfound awareness continu-
ally slips back into unawareness the moment it comes into fruition, caught
in a dynamic and volatile exchange. What emerges h ere, then, is a form of
knowledge characterized as much by consciousness as it is by unconscious-
ness, a phenomenon brought into fruition by the unhinged experience of
this auditory body. For it is this very destabilization that makes one’s rela-
tionship to the body all the more visceral, transferring a metaphysics of the
body for a heightened corporeality, offering an instance of what Michael
Taussig calls “the bodily unconscious,” where “the self becomes part of that
which is seen, not a sovereign transcendent . . . [and] thought [is] more
like poetry.”59 Offering an instant of corporeal poetics, here is understood
the unknowing of the body, a realm outside the confines of pure reason,
as Azmayesh writes: “The most fundamental solution of the problem lies
in the inner vibration of the music. The Daf is a bridge between hearts,
outside of geography or history. The rhythm united the heartbeat of two
or more people to become one rhythm with the hearts of thousands. We
are invited to reason, but at a certain point the thinking stops.”60 In other
words, the listener is mimicking not the m usic itself, but that which is heard
through the body. As we have seen, however, this listening act is not a pas-
sive mode of reception, but a critical transmission of an encounter with
the divine mystery. As such, the body is not mimicking any supreme being,
but rather replicates the listening act itself. H ere, then, what emerges is a
phenomenon that one may call the auditory body: through the aesthetic
encounter, the subjective body begins to converge with the listening act.
Indeed, if we understand mimesis to be, as Taussig writes, “a stunning
instance of imitation blending so intimately with contact that it becomes im-
possible to separate image from substance in the power of the final effect,”61
then we see how this sensorial “contact” positions itself not simply as a mode
of reception, but a vehicle for transformation. Indeed, as the listening subject
begins to disappear into the listening act, the Foucauldian social body of the
everyday may be transformed—if only fleetingly—into the auditory body.
132 Chapter Three

Ultimately, however, the goal is to need no music at all, but to develop
such sensitivity in one’s listening ability that even listening to silence be-
comes revelatory and all forms of hearing are emblematic of sama. Turning
again to Azmayesh: “If we put it differently, we can say that Sufism is based
on silence and listening to the inner m
usic. The goal of the seeker is to be-
come one, to unite with this inner music.”62 For certain, it is for this reason
that silence is given such importance within Sufi poetry and thought, so
much so that Rumi alternatively signed his writings as “Silence” or “The
Silent One” (Khamushi). In looking t oward the relationship between lis-
tening, the body, and silence, the objective then is to be able to be aware of
this body when there is no music present at all. As such, this goal is simi-
larly investigated by American composer John Cage, as he offers a similar
proposition regarding the inaudible sounds of the body in the following
iconic statement:
It was at Harvard not quite forty years ago that I went into an anechoic [to-
tally silent] chamber not expecting in that silent room to hear two sounds:
one high, my nervous system in operation, one low, my blood in circula-
tion. The reason I did not expect to hear those two sounds was that they
were set into vibration without any intention on my part. That experience
gave my life direction, the exploration of non-intention. No one else was
doing that. I would do it for us. I did not know immediately what I was
doing, nor, after all these years, have I found out much. I compose music.
Yes, but how? I gave up making choices. In their place I put the asking of
questions.63
When faced with nothingness, as silence and sound collapse into one,
another form of experiential knowledge emerges. At first glance at this
passage, what results from the audition of silence, as with the audition
of percussive music, is the hearing of the body, a revelation of one’s own
vital—breathing and circulating—consciousness. While this form of “non-
intentional” listening might appear to be at first antithetical to the willful
body movements activated by listening to music previously described, the
goal is to re-create this experience where the two modes of listening overlap.
In other words, what Cage is proposing h ere is the intentional generation
of nonintention, described as the composition of “the asking of questions,”
with special focus given to the role of the body. In silence then, we are able
to see the more idealized form of an unknowing of the body, wherein one
is freed from the need for sensorial experience as impetus to experiential
knowledge, and operates instead through what might alternately be called

instinct, as Azmayesh explains: “During your journey in the darkness you
are being guided by your heartbeat, your sixth sense.”64 Between the prov-
inces of knowing and forgetting, between the material and the metaphysi-
cal, the body and the soul, the event of the instantiation of fana culminates
as a new existential composition for the participant, interfacing silence and
sound, ecstasy and exhaustion.
134 Chapter Three

4 Unknowing of Memory
When the disaster comes upon us, it does not come. The disaster
is its imminence, but since the future, as we conceive of it in
the order of lived time, belongs to the disaster, the disaster
has always already withdrawn or dissuaded it; t here is no
future for the disaster, just as there is no time or space for its
accomplishment.
maurice blanchot, the writing of the disaster (1982)
True zekr is that you forget your zekr.

abu nasr al-sarraj, in shah-kazemi, justice and
remembrance (2006)
Meeting
On late Friday afternoons, the Sufis gather at their meeting place

(hosseiniyeh or tekiyeh)1 on the eastern side of Takhteh-Foulad Cem-
etery as dusk falls.2 The people file in slowly but steadily, the men
off in one section, the women heading into another, polite greetings
and chatter filling the old spaces. Now is not the time for deep con-
versation, however, as there is business at hand, the call to prayer
quickly approaching as the sky darkens. Shoes are slipped off at the
door, placed in plastic bags and quickly stashed on wooden shelves,
in handbags, or in other vessels. The people speak in hushed tones as
they pad into the rooms. Carpets, thin and dusty but still providing
a welcome cushion, line the floor as the faithful sit cross-legged on the
ground, a few chairs in the back for the elderly and infirm.
They have come h ere for Friday prayers, and to pay respects to the g reat
sheikh and poet Nasser Ali. He was unusual among the spiritual leaders
(qotbs) of the order to be buried not at the pilgrimage site of Beydokht in
Gonabad, in the northeast of the country, but in centrally located Isfahan,
and so it is h ere that the members of the present order are lucky enough to
meet in the presence of such a great spirit.
“It was wonderful,” Simin would later recall. “I really felt like he was
there with us, and he watched over us specifically since God had chosen
for him to stay with us for eternity. We were so lucky to have him t here.”
The call to prayer from a nearby mosque sounds (the shrine is prohib-
ited from broadcasting anything from a loudspeaker or anything louder
than from a portable stereo, as per the municipal government’s demands),
and everyone rises to their feet. A sheikh begins the prayers, his voice clear
though unamplified, his accented Arabic practiced and confident, and all
followers pursue. Mouths take the shape of well-worn words, bodies fall
into the familiar movements, patterns, and actions as practiced and pol-
ished as sea stone. Once the sunset prayers are complete, there may be
some short remarks, or the reading of some classical poetry, but now is not
the time for sermons.
As the faithful file out, the line moves slowly as people pause at the en-
trance to bend down to put on their shoes and then quickly shuffle out to
make room for the o thers, mothers slipping sandals onto the feet of fidget-
ing children, o thers rustling through plastic bags and cubbyholes, where
an occasional mismatched pair may emerge; the sky is still lit, though the
light is fading fast. Another week’s prayers done, the whole meeting has
lasted about forty minutes. A holiday or special occasion notwithstand-
ing, the building w ill stand empty u ntil next week, when all w
ill gather for
Friday prayers again.
On late Friday afternoons, the Sufis gather on the eastern side of
Takhteh-Foulad as dusk falls. Exchanging polite greetings, they have come
for sundown prayers. They are all carrying the small carpets, the jah namaz
used to provide a transportable prayer place, unfurling them onto the con-
crete as they take their spots on the empty lot. There is still rubble along
the sides of the vacated lot, the high walls of another section of the cem-
etery complex coming to an abrupt end, having sustained some damage
when the shrine was demolished. The grave, however, was left intact.
136 Chapter Four

The Sufis had resisted the demolition of Takhteh-Foulad for nearly
seven months before it was razed to the ground in the early morning hours
of February 18, 2009.
In late autumn of 2008, a sign had been posted on the door by the mu-
nicipal government (shahrdari) that the building was in disrepair and was to
be destroyed as part of the city’s beautification initiative. Several members
went to shahrdari offices to inquire further on the matter, but the only infor-
mation they were given was another printout of the sign on the door. The
decision had already been made, they were informed, and it was final. When
they asked to whom they might appeal, the city official told them simply:
“Why should it matter who made the decision? It was already decided
upon, wasn’t it? Don’t waste your time, and now you are wasting mine.”
Distraught, the Sufis gathered to decide what should be done about the
matter.
“Two hundred years, two hundred years this building has stood here in
this very spot, and now it is to be destroyed!”
“Why would they do such a thing? We weren’t even using loudspeakers!”
“This is truly a sin. Leave it to these fools, they are even destroying
graves and disturbing the dead.”
They decided upon the following tactic: they would appeal once more
to the municipal government, promising to never use the shrine again
if only it would be left alone. This was a risky move, as it was essentially
calling out the city for what the Sufis suspected w ere the real motivations
behind the demolition: the site was being used as a meeting place by a
group that did not have official permission to do so.3
A letter was drafted and several senior men returned to the shahrdari to
ask to whom they might submit the letter. The same low-level bureaucrat
they had seen before took it from them, barely raising his gaze from the
files he was going through.
After receiving no response to their letter, including several follow-up
efforts to see if anyone had actually read their plea at all, their worst suspi-
cions w ere confirmed. The city was still planning to go ahead with its plans.
A new tactic would be necessary.
And so it was decided that they would resist the change with direct op-
position, with their physical presence, their physical being. A sentry would
be posted at all times at the shrine, day and night, and if there were any
signs of construction vehicles or other vehicles of destruction, they would
alert other members via mobile phone to gather immediately at the shrine
Unknowing of Memory 137

and protest the demolition. Surely, they reasoned, if the building was full
of people, they w ouldn’t dare raze the shrine? They w ill probably arrest us,
some argued. Let them, at the very least it w ill slow down the demolition,
and besides, is there anything else left we could do? Perhaps there will be
too many of us and they w ill hesitate a bit before proceeding with their
actions.
And so names and numbers w ere taken of volunteers, both men and
women (women would stand guard during the daytime only), for guard-
ians of the shrine. Day and night they stood sentry, mobile phones fully
charged and at the ready, keeping an eye out for any construction vehicles
or anyone who carried himself with an official air (that unsettling and un-
pleasant attitude of supreme confidence and detachment—it is easy to
carry yourself so when you feel t here is no consequence to your actions;
such is the danger of the bureaucrat). But for months, t here was nothing.
People began to wonder if the municipal government’s warning was just
that, an empty warning, an empty threat, although such decrees usually
had some sort of substance to them. It was more a matter of when rather
than if. In Iran things take so long to get done, they joked, we even have
to wait for unwanted actions (the politics of dread). And so they waited.
They waited u ntil winter’s turn, when a person could no longer stand the
cold during the darkest hours, when the old stone building stood empty
from ten in the evening until sunrise prayers. Still, the Sufis stood guard
during the day, they stood the best they could. Until someone who had
a relative in the city government heard a rumor that the building was to
be destroyed that very night. That night, a group of about fifteen Sufis ar-
rived and vowed to stay u ntil morning, wrapped u nder layers of clothing
and clutching thermoses of hot tea. A tense evening came and passed, and
some of the members went home as the clock inched passed midnight.
Surely, the danger had passed for this night. Still, a group of five remained.
Not long a fter the o thers had gone, however, the remaining darvish,
sitting on the ground, huddled under blankets, dozing in and out of con-
sciousness, heard someone shouting orders. The whirring, beeping noise
of construction vehicles arose. Before they knew what was happening, sev-
eral members of the security forces entered the hosseiniyeh and the men
were pulled to their feet: “You are illegally occupying this building and are
hereby u nder arrest.” Before they even arrested them, however, the first
thing they did, the Sufis would say, was force them to give up their cell
phones. They were taken to the police station and kept overnight in a “de-
tention room” but then were released in the morning.
138 Chapter Four

As the five sentries w ere being taken away by the authorities, in the early
morning hours of February 18, 2009, a city-commissioned bulldozer came
into Takhteh-Foulad and razed the building to the ground. The vehicle was
accompanied by a large group, somewhere between one hundred and two
hundred individuals, police officers, security personnel, and plainclothes
agents, most likely members of the paramilitary group the Basij, who had
joined in the event of a fight breaking out. But there was no one there.
Only some two-hundred-year-old bricks, dusty lights, and an old grave.
The neighboring library was also destroyed, the yellowing volumes of po-
etry and exegesis torn to pieces in the rubble. When it was gone, perhaps
they were surprised by the large field of rubble left in its wake: things al-
ways take up more space when they are in pieces.
And yet something stopped the authorities from destroying the grave
itself. Perhaps they felt it unnecessary, since they w ere already removing
the meeting place, leaving the Sufis with no place to gather, and that had
always been the real objective. Or perhaps something felt wrong, perhaps
something stirred in them, that to destroy the final resting place of the
dead would reap consequences beyond this life. Perhaps it was never part
of their orders at all; but whatever the reason, though the building was
gone . . . the grave remained.
And that was all that was needed.
The Steel Throne
Takhteh-Foulad, or Steel Throne, is a series of large, interconnected open-

air cemeteries within the city of Isfahan. It is divided into different spaces
by gates and walls that bifurcate it into distinct segments, with each section
having its own name: the Mausoleum of Baba Rokn-Al Din, the Garden of
the Martyrs (Golestan-e Shohada), the Mausoleum of Mir Fendereski. By
all accounts it is the second largest Shi‘ite cemetery in the world, following
only that in Najaf, Iraq, home to the resting place of Imam Ali and hence
among the holiest sites in Shi‘ite Islam. The city describes it as a “com-
plex” or “necropolis” in English. Some of the cemeteries are surrounded
by high walls and others have fences. If you were to enter from one of its
many entry points, you would most likely encounter rows of beige tomb-
stones laid flat, as is the custom, Persian and Arabic calligraphy e tched
in the stone, facing skyward, with large, gazebo-like tombs and towers
distributed throughout the graves for especially important figures. Small

figure 4.1 Takhteh-
Foulad Cemetery, Seyed
al-Araghaen tekiyeh,
where the author’s grand
father is buried.
figure 4.2 Takhteh-
Foulad Cemetery, Seyed
al-Araghaen tekiyeh.
b uildings and towers line the perimeters, most containing more graves,
some with framed black and white photos of the deceased hanging on
the wall. There are also some larger mausoleums that contain paintings of
scenes from Islamic and Shi‘ite history: the battle of Karbala, the Prophet’s
night journey to heaven. A number of small museums are also scattered
throughout Takhteh-Foulad, including the Museum of Stone, a small mu-
seum that commemorates the Iran-Iraq War, and a Journalism Museum
that is largely a collection of early and mid-twentieth-century newspapers.
With some of the oldest buildings dating back some eight hundred
years, it continued to be the primary burial ground in Isfahan, alongside
such cemeteries as the Abbakhshan and Sonbolan, for hundreds of years
until the Bagh-e Rezvan Cemetery was established after the Islamic Revo-
lution. Throughout this time, most scholars, artists, spiritual leaders, and
other local dignitaries w ere buried in Takhteh-Foulad. According to the
Takhteh-Foulad Cultural, Historic and Religious Organization, t here are
2,400 such “luminaries” contained within, as well as fifty-eight tombs.
From about roughly 1981, however, the cemetery was closed to all other
new burials until a new graveyard, the Golestan-e Shohada, or Garden of
the Martyrs, was created to bury the soldiers who died in the war. T oday
the war martyrs’ cemetery also is home to a handful of Iranian soldiers
who died fighting isis in Syria. With the exception of these more recent
burials, there were few buried in Takhteh-Foulad after the martyr-soldiers
of the 1980s.
Despite the general moratorium on burials, Takhteh-Foulad remains an
active site, with certain sections seeing far more activity than o thers. The
Garden of the Martyrs is the most active, receiving school groups on class
trips and holding tours, and of course many parents and f amily members
come to pay respects to the martyrs of the war. Art history students visit
the rich frescoes at every mausoleum. And even among the sleepier teki-
yehs there are visitors. In some sites, people w ill visit the graves of local
saint figures, with requests for suitable marriage prospects for their sons
and daughters being a common ask, or simply to visit more distantly
passed relatives. My own maternal grandfather was among the last of the
nonmartyr burials, having passed away in 1981, and so my f amily and I have
consistently visited the tekiyeh of Seyed al-Araghaen since then, bringing
with us large plastic b ottles we have filled with w ater to wash the dusty
grave as is the common practice. Unlike the busy Garden of the Martyrs te-
kiyeh, we w ere often the only people t here save for the occasional presence
of a kindly groundskeeper, with most of grandfather’s “neighbors” having

been interred much e arlier. And of course t here were the Sufi visitors. The
tomb of Nasser Ali was unsurprisingly busiest on Thursday evenings and
on Fridays, when p eople would gather together, but individuals might stop
by on their own during the week as schedules allowed and the spirit moved
them. It was a pillar of the community, a corner of the sprawling necropolis
that is Takhteh-Foulad that was theirs alone.
Amnesia and Active Forgetting
Given the importance of the tomb of Nasser Ali, one would expect the
mystics to commemorate the site, and I think it is fair to say they did but,
in d oing so, they a dopted not only a unique method of commemoration
but a different understanding of the site itself. Indeed, rather than mourn
the destruction of their meeting place outright, when questioned about
the incident, the members assumed a rather curious position. Namely, the
denial that this meeting place ever existed, that this destruction had in fact
not taken place, and that any and all memories of the old building must
be dismissed. There was only the grave and that was all that was needed.
In other words, in their desire to not place too much importance on the
physical space itself, the practitioners distanced themselves from even this
forced removal of the space. So resolved w ere they in their desire to dis-
pute the memory of this building, in fact, that several of them essentially
refused to speak plainly regarding the m atter. Ultimately, what is being em-
braced h ere is an instance of a decisive refutation of memory, a forgetting
so purposeful that the material may be rendered immaterial.
What has willed this vanishing act, however, cannot be called simply
an instance of forgetting. There are too many streaks of passivity that run
throughout pure forgetting, too much of an offhanded carelessness that
characterizes its treatment of the past. To forget something, even if it is
forever caught up in the unconscious dialectics of memory, is to disregard
it, to devalue it.
And herein lies the contradiction within the project of a desire to forget,
of a need to forget, or what might be called a mode of active forgetting. If
forgetting implies a passive dismissal, how might such an occurrence be
transformed when something is forgotten precisely because it is valued?
And, because it is valued, must therefore be consciously, willfully forgot-
ten? Or, to put it another way, how does one remember to forget, to un-
know a memory?
142 Chapter Four

To answer this question I would posit that perhaps forgetting is the
wrong phenomenon of remembrance altogether h ere. Perhaps the objec-
tive here is not one of forgetting, but more an instance of amnesia. For
when we consider amnesia, we consider a phenomenon that is character-
ized by awareness; the amnesiac is aware that they remember nothing. Am-
nesia is characterized by the realization of an absence, it is the emergence
of a now dispossessed memory of an absent time and place. Thus, not dis-
similar to the ideas of Nietzsche and Benjamin,4 just as we see memory
emerging as a device against history as an objective and legitimate totality,
here we see the disappearance of memory possessing similarly reconstruc-
tive capabilities. And so the order strives not simply to forget, but to in-
duce an amnesiac state.
As a consequence, it is in this way that the subject’s role within the
construction, or in this case, negation of the past, is given the utmost
importance. The individual act of remembrance is afforded the capacity
to subvert any claims of “historical reality.” Similarly, given the subject’s
conscious and active desire to undermine the past as a totality, it is in this
way that the amnesia would distance itself from the phenomenon of re-
pression, even considering this particul ar instance of a site of trauma. Re-
pression involves the unconscious aftermath of trauma, imposed upon the
subject by the source of disturbance. This self-induced amnesia is a con-
scious activity, whereupon the subject imposes upon the ontology of the
original trauma. Hence, just to clarify once again, the ultimate objective
of a willful amnesia is an awareness of a forgotten past, an awareness that
implicates itself just as heavily.
The amnesiac encounter would imply a hyperconsciousness or a hyper-
sensitivity to the gap in memory, to the evacuated space where a memory
should exist. One realizes that there exists a gap in their memory. Now I
would note that w hether this goal, this m
ental state, is ever achieved is a
question of an entirely different sort, but at the very least, t here is a will-
ingness here to invoke an instance of willful amnesia, even if it ultimately
proves an impossible task. On the other hand, it is to this very impossibil-
ity that we may return . . . unknowingly.
In this chapter, I investigate the Sufis’ reaction to the destruction and
the decision to “remember to forget” the site. In particular, I argue how
this contestation of memory is tied to broader mystical theories of re-
membrance/forgetting, some of which lie in theoretical underpinnings
of the zekr ritual, and the consequences that such a refutation holds for
understandings of the Real and the Unreal. From here, I explore the ways

in which this technique of commemoration exhibits both similarities and
differences to the Islamic Republic’s own exercises in the construction of
public memory, especially as it relates to their investment in legacies of
the Iran-Iraq War. In d oing so, I w
ill touch upon the convergences and di-
vergences between Nimatullahi Sufi theories of remembrance and those
of Ja‘fari (Twelver) Shi‘ism, the official form of Shi‘ism of the Islamic Re-
public. I conclude the chapter by reflecting upon what it means to demand
such malleability from the Unreal—our profane world—through this dis-
mantling of a memory, where a community may undermine the ontologi-
cal status of an object, and one that has been targeted by hostile forces. In
doing so, we might better understand the epistemologies involved in such
an endeavor, where the application of unknowing (ma‘rifat) has allowed
for no less than the questioning of what is real and what is not.
Sanitized Shrines
Before discussing the impetus to “remember to forget” in more detail, I

would first take a moment to consider the actions of the city authority
(shahrdari). My evidence h ere is scarcer than I would like it to be, as the
typical avenues of investigation were unavailable to me. Still, I will offer the
information I was able to gather, especially that which pertains to broader
developments happening at Takhteh-Foulad at the time. And develop-
ments were happening to be sure.
In 2006, the Organization of Islamic Countries selected Isfahan as
the cultural capital of the Islamic world. In light of this development, the
Takhteh-Foulad Cultural Organization was formed in affiliation with the
Isfahan Municipal government (shahrdari), with Hossein Hamidi-Esfahani
as the manager (as well as donor), the vocal support of Dr. Saghaian Ne-
zhad, the mayor of Isfahan, and with an office space on Chahar Bagh-e Bala
in the south near Darvaze Shiraz, essentially a prime piece of real estate in
the heart of the commercial district. And the cemetery was first given the
official title “Majmooye Tarikhi, Farhangi, va Mazhabi-e Takhteh-Foulad,”
or “The Historic, Cultural, and Religious Center of Takhteh-Foulad.”5 The
purpose of this organization was noted as the following: “carrying out ex-
tensive projects-works at maintenance and renovation as well as cultural,
research, and educational levels. Th ese include publishing books, leaflets,
and brochures; holding conferences and education workshops; organizing
galleries and exhibitions on photos, stone artifacts, and journals; guiding
144 Chapter Four

tourists; and making films about the lives of the departed dignitaries.”6 In
addition, in March 2009, the center published a book that had been com-
missioned in English, describing the lives of many of the dignitaries con-
tained within Takhteh-Foulad, and their very extensive website notes that
more than 150 foreign dignitaries have visited the site.
Given the sudden influx of preservation projects and promotional ef-
forts, it might then seem strange that, in February 2009, one month prior
to the publication of this English-language text, the hosseiniyeh was de-
stroyed in the early morning hours. What might have prompted such a
drastic and irreversible act of demolition right when the municipal govern-
ment was beginning to bring attention to the cemetery for the first time in
decades? Rather than proving a contradictory act, such “alterations” were
exactly in line with the construction of the new image and reality that the
authorities wished Takhteh-Foulad to assume. In other words, by razing
to the ground a shrine that was still being actively worshipped—meaning
attracting a sizeable group of visitors on a regular basis—the municipal
government made the decision to halt such visitations as resolutely as
possible.7 The existence of the mystics’ gathering spot and the attention
it received from the darvish each week was not in line with the image of
Takhteh-Foulad that the municipal government wanted to project: that of
a dormant and long-abandoned site, of use only for scholars and tourists,
“historical” in the sense of inactivity. And certainly not a location where
a religious group—one, though Shi‘i, was certainly distinct from the re-
ligion of the state—came to gather at a shrine, to reaffirm their commu-
nity and make use of public space. Remember the official reason given was
that of “beautification of the neighborhood” (zibayi-ye mahal), or some
mode of alteration to render an entity aesthetically pleasing to a particular
set of standards. Here, these standards demanded the eviction of a Sufi
order whose regular visits and presence inserted them into the landscape
of Takhteh-Foulad, a presence deemed unacceptable.
Indeed, the restriction of the Sufis’ activities and the desire to hide them
from public view is emblematic of a larger effort by the Iranian govern-
ment, particularly the national government, to homogenize and sanitize
Shi‘i practice. For despite the claims of autonomy from outside influence of
the Islamic Republic, the government assumes great care in the image that
it presents to the world, taking pains to set forth not only a cohesive image,
but one that remains dignified and measured; a Protestant Shi‘ism, if you
will. More specifically, this entails the banning of “folk” practices such as
exorcism and trance, and the “discouragement” of fortune-telling.8 Perhaps

most tellingly, Ayatollah Khamenei, the supreme leader, issued a decree
(fatwa) banning the ceremonial mourning practice known as zanjeer-zani,
a ritual where practitioners self-flagellate with blades and other weaponry,
practiced during the Ashura holiday, a day commemorating the martyrdom
of Imam Hossein. Ayatollah Khamenei banned the practice, a violent and
often shocking spectacle where blood covers the streets almost as much as
it does the bodies of the faithful, with the declaration that: “The eyes of
the world are sewn upon us” (chesm-e donya ru mah dookhteh ast), an omi-
nous warning to remain cognizant of Iran’s role as an exceptional state in the
world, one constantly under the threat of invasion and attack. Thus, by dis-
couraging such “folkloric” activities, deemed too extreme or too unguided
by proper authorities, the Islamic Republic attempts not only to maintain
its grasp over all “spiritual activities,” but to present a unified and sober
image to the larger world, thereby acknowledging and reaffirming the “eye”
or the gaze of the world, and most notably the imperial powers, of which it
has long claimed to be free.
Disparate Recollections
Given the actions of the authorities to sanitize the “wrong” forms of wor-
ship at Takhteh-Foulad, it is perhaps all the more striking that the Sufis
decided to “remember to forget” as they did, to refute the finality of the
memory of the tomb of Nasser Ali. At this point, I would like to consider
this decision more closely, and particularly how they articulated their re-
sponses to me when questioned about the incident. First and foremost, I
would emphasize the deeply complex nature of their response, as it is im-
perative to note that the individual accounts of the memories of the tekiyeh
at Takhteh-Foulad and the destruction that transpired there vary greatly.
For despite the order’s seemingly “official stance” on the matter, the diver-
sity of responses I received reflects not only the difficulty in predicting in-
dividual reactions, but the tenuous foundation on which the constructions
of this willed amnesia is based. Indeed, such a tenuous foundation suggests
the need for constant maintenance of such a stance, and the ways in which
retaining this position remains an active process.
It must also be made clear that in many instances the amount of informa-
tion made available to me was directly related to the nature of my p ersonal
relationship with the interlocutor. In other words, I noted a c orrelation—
146 Chapter Four

to use a word favored by social scientists—between how close I was to my
interviewee personally, our level of intimacy and the extent of our friend-
ship, and the ways in which they discussed the tomb of Nasser Ali.
There w ere t hose who not only gave straightforward accounts of what
transpired but interspersed their narratives with personal memories as
well. To all my interlocutors I posed a simple query: “What happened at
Takhteh-Foulad?” Th ese interviews took place in autumn of 2010.
Sepideh was one of the first p eople I spoke to and she recounted the
tale in intimate fashion: “Oh, it was terrible. We used to always meet in
Takhteh-Foulad, for prayers and sermons. On holidays we would have
our silent zekr there. Now it’s no longer there. I was so upset when it
happened.”
Fati, an older and very devout w oman who passed along any gift you
gave her to t hose she deemed less fortunate, and another Sufi whom I knew
well, expressed anger in contrast to Sepideh’s despair: “What happened?
They w on’t let us live in peace. If it is not their masjid it is no one’s. We
weren’t bothering anyone, and they still w ouldn’t leave us alone.”
Amir Hussain assumed yet another affective stance when discussing the
destruction, one of heavy resignation: “You know, it was only good that
you w eren’t there. It was too sad. They tried so hard to stop it, and still they
destroyed it.” His double use of “they”—expressed in the Persian not as a
pronoun itself but as the suffix of the verb—implicates both Sufis and the
authorities in the events that transpired at the tomb of Nasser Ali, a naming
without naming.
In t hese statements we see acknowledgments made, and accusations.
There are clear actors and agents, a before and after, an “us” and a “them.”
Shame was ascribed onto the authorities for their actions, a direct imposi-
tion of the local government onto the Sufis’ practice. Remorse and a sense
of loss are expressed at the destruction of the meeting place, a linear and
tragically clichéd narrative of the political powers that be limiting the prac-
tices of a local community.
These same interlocutors also described the actions that were taken
after the destruction. Again, I turned to Sepideh: “We had a session. Sev-
eral of the sheikhs came and spoke to us, that we shouldn’t be upset, that
we didn’t need it [the building]. We tried but now must remember t awhid
[union with the divine] instead. They told us we should remember to
forget.” Here we see the important injunction relayed by the sheikh: “re-
member to forget.” Hajji Mahmoud, an older fellow who had been visiting

Takhteh-Foulad his entire life, and continues to visit other shrines in the
complex, relayed a similar sentiment: “Hazrat Agha (a sheikh) told us to
forget the building, the grave was still there, to remember God in all places,
to look for him everywhere. . . . Forget the building had even been there.”
Finally, Fati provided a bit more information on the sheikhs’ theological
reasoning b ehind their decisions, or at least what was conveyed to their fol-
lowers: “They spoke of the invisible and the unseen. The grave remained,
and we might pray everywhere. Try and forget the building. . . . They are
very wise, and so I have.” There is a fascinating juxtaposition here, a privi-
leging of both the material (the grave) and the immaterial (the unseen,
the invisible, forget the building). This speaks to broader Sufi theories of
materiality, particularly those who espouse the idea that not all materiality
is created equal, where some forms can be seen as distractions from the
“Real” and other forms—particularly auditory forms, as we have seen—
are considered as conduits to closeness with God (tawhid).
More broadly, from these anecdotes it is clear that a strategy had been
adopted by the spiritual authorities, one that was hence a dopted by their
practitioners. It was a position based not on commemoration but on for-
getting, a remembrance to forget, to “try and forget.” Throughout my dis-
cussion with this group, the meeting following the incident was clearly
recognized.
Glaringly absent here, however, are discussions with the sheikhs them-
selves. They did not wish to discuss the incident at Takhteh-Foulad, but
said it was fine for me to write about it in light of their followers’ state-
ments. Given the sensitive nature of what transpired, this is all I w
ill say on
the matter in regards to the sheikhs.
Evasion and Forgetting
Let us return to my conversations with the lay darvishes. In contrast to the

discussions with interlocutors with whom I shared a certain intimacy and
friendship, o thers w
ere much more evasive in their responses to queries
about Takhteh-Foulad. H ere, my ethnography relies just as strongly on
silences, ellipses, and meaningful glances as on verbal articulation. There
were t hose who acknowledged the destruction but clearly did not wish to
discuss it, dismissing my questions with a wave of the hand and, in one or
two cases, with raised eyebrows and a knowing look. “Don’t worry about
148 Chapter Four

what happened t here,” I was told. In response to my query, “What hap-
pened at Takhteh-Foulad?” (“Chi pish amad dar Takhteh-Foulad?”), I re-
ceived the following answers:
“In Takhteh-Foulad? We had some problems there, but it wasn’t

important.”
“We used to meet there, but not anymore.”
“Yes, we used to go there but it’s not important to go t here

anymore.”
ere, there is either a recognition that some misfortune occurred or at the

H
very least an acknowledgment that Takhteh-Foulad once acted as a meet-
ing place. Still, the answers were vague and brief, with a tone that could
convey a dismissiveness, a reassuring air (“don’t worry about it”), or slight
irritation (“it’s not important”). There was the feeling that much was being
left unsaid, the feeling that there was an imperative to forget.
And still there were yet more responses, from interlocutors to whom I
was not personally close but who w ere not evasive at all but in fact quite
direct—direct in that they stated they had no knowledge of that which
I was speaking of at all. There was no knowing glance with this latter
group, not even an exasperated wave of the hand. Instead there was a quiet
confidence in their response, which was sometimes paired with an air of
confusion since what I spoke of did not seem to register with them. The
responses were typically short and always direct, as demonstrated by the
following statements from four individuals:
“No, you must be mistaken. There was no tomb t here.”
“We have many places to meet.”
“There was never any building in Takhteh-Foulad.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know of what you speak.”
I must admit these were among the strangest and most uncomfort-
able moments of fieldwork I encountered, t hese polite responses that
initially left me quite perplexed, sometimes causing an abrupt stop in the
conversation. The first of these direct refutations I encountered was

particularly confusing, and made me question my own understanding of
the event. Was I mistaken? Was there another name used for the site of
which I was unaware? Was I referring to the wrong tekiyeh? They had trans-
formed the memory of the event for themselves with such conviction (or
at least it was conveyed to me in such a way) that my own understanding
of the event began to falter, began to become unknown.
Ultimately what we are witnessing here is a direct refutation that any-
thing transpired, an unwillingness to note the building ever existed at all,
and/or the questioning of the validity of my inquiry. For this group of in-
dividuals, their responses reflected the highest form of willful amnesia, the
active and conscious erasure of the memory at hand.
Willed Amnesia and Material Form
With the differences between my interlocutors’ recounts of the event

established, let us turn our attention now to the physical, material space
at hand (at least before it was negated). To reiterate the order’s stance, it
was asserted that this building should be “forgotten” (bayad faramushesh
bokonim), or rather that they “should forget it.” The building thus was
deemed irrelevant for its larger purposes, easily replaced and therefore
easily forgotten. At the same time, however, if it was regarded as “just
a building” why then was such an effort taken in order to disremember
this structure?
The Sufis’ ability to undermine and negate the “sacredness” of this
house, to deny its past as a site of zekr ritual, exposes the fact that the mate-
rial building can be transformed, or at the very least the memory of this
material space might be altered. Through this negation, the very ontology
of the building is transfigured; first, into an immaterial memory, where-
upon the significance of its prior use value is subverted in f avor of remem-
bering it as “just a building,” just a physical space, if admitting its previous
existence at all. We might remember here too that unknowing is always a
generative event. Concluding this act of transformation/denial of space
through memory, however, is the denial of the memory itself. Here, then,
physical space is rendered meaningless, insignificant to the point that
even its memory is denied. In other words, through this act of willful
amnesia, through the negation of a sacred space, the ontological status
of the building has been transformed from a metaphysical presence into
a material absence. This is a material absence rather than simply a meta-
150 Chapter Four

physical one, in that it is the subject who has instigated this transforma-
tion, it is the subject and not the divine who has challenged the existence
of this space.
And so, having discussed this willful forgetting and the transforma-
tive capabilities it entails, let us broaden the argument a bit further. More
specifically, I am wondering here how this temporal phenomenon might
extend itself into a broader epistemological question. In other words, is
there room for knowledge within this amnesia, and if so what kind? For
when you have such a purposeful refutation of the memory of this tekiyeh,
it would be assumed that by refusing memory, you are subsequently refus-
ing knowledge. Nevertheless, having established this disappearance of the
Sufi tekiyeh as not simply a passive forgetting or a repression in response to
trauma, but as a complex form of willful amnesia, so too might we suggest
that the knowledge of such an event is similarly complicated. Certainly,
it would be too s imple to say that they merely do not possess any mem-
ory of the building or any knowledge of the building, but rather that they
know what happened, they possess a knowledge of what Maurice Blanchot
would call the disaster. Thus, through this amnesia, the Sufis are formulat-
ing a mode of non-knowledge, of unknowing, an awareness through the
unaware. And so, in the end, a question emerges out of this disappeared
space: What are the epistemological implications of this willful amnesia?
And how might they be tied to the unknowability of the divine?
First, we may consider amnesia to be characterized not simply as the
loss of memory, but as that moment of realization that there has been a
loss. In other words, amnesia comes into being the moment where one be-
comes cognizant that t here is a gap in memory, as opposed to the moment
of vanishing itself. Hence, I would suggest that amnesia as we are dealing
with it here is defined as an epistemological phenomenon first, one deter-
mined by, as we have seen, cognizance, realization, a conscious awareness,
and so on, and a historical phenomenon second. As such, if amnesia is the
absence of memory made present, a willful amnesia is the awareness of
the absence of memory made present.
Having considered this, let us look a bit more closely at this awareness
of absence, and how awareness may distinguish itself from and simulta
neously align itself with remembrance. Indeed, complicating this problem
of the amnesiac’s knowledge of the absence from the outset is the fact that
this absence is not a pure absence, it is not simply a void. To better under-
stand this, let us return to the Sufi context, in this case how the zekr ritual
might help us in better analyzing the question of the void.

Shi‘i Strategies of Remembrance
If we pan the camera further back, extending beyond the self-enclosed

community of the Sufis and their immediate practice, the larger milieu of
contemporary Iran comes into view, and the question then immediately
arises: How are we to understand these practices of active forgetting, of
willful amnesia, in such a setting as the Islamic Republic, a system of
government whose founding/establishment, concretization, and contin-
ued existence is so intimately tied to ideas of remembrance? Where, from
its earliest assumptions of power, the ominous command to “remember,”
ostensibly to remain ever mindful of the constant threat by both the im-
perial powers and the Sunni-secular army of Saddam Hussein, was syn-
onymous with a declaration of allegiance to the state, a rallying cry to
both the theological (here, Shi‘i) and postcolonial foundations on which
this new nation was based. And the memories invoked by the state were
of a very specific nature: the remembrance of the Iran-Iraq War, and all
those who perished, the reasons behind their sacrifice, and the way that
these memories must remain active in the realm of the present. Thus,
when the state commands its citizens to remember, it often speaks to a
very specific incident: the Iran-Iraq War, or as it is known in Iran, the war
of “the Holy Defense.”
Beginning in September 1980 with the surprise air attack of Saddam’s
forces and ending in a UN-brokered ceasefire in August 1988, the war’s ca-
sualties have been estimated at half a million soldiers and civilians, with
the oil-rich region of Khuzestan in the southwest being particularly dev-
astated. And while nearly thirty-four years have passed since the cease-
fire, the material and semantic presence of the war within Iran, through
memorialization practices alone, remains undeniable. Much has been writ-
ten of the various manifestations of commemoration in Iran, especially in
visual cultural studies, including works by Pamela Karimi on the legacy
of Iran’s famous war murals, Pedram Partovi and Roxanne Varzi on the
impact of the cinema of the “sacred defense,” Pedram Khosronejad on the
proliferation of war museums and other forms of visual culture, and Amir
Moosavi on the theorizations and maintenance of martyrdom within Ira
nian literature, to name but a few, and it is this scholarship upon which
I am relying h ere.9 To name but a few instantiations of remembrance of
the Iran-Iraq War and its martyrs: In every city, street names and major
thoroughfares invoke the names of the martyred dead; various national
holidays celebrate and commemorate the beginning, end, and particular
152 Chapter Four

moments of the war; banners, each adorned with the solemn visage of a
different uniformed young man, are hung on street lamps; vast billboards
and murals painted on the sides of buildings depict scenes of soldiers in the
foreground, a benevolent-looking Ayatollah appearing in the background;
war museums and statues are found in a diverse array of cities, large and
small, throughout Iran, the largest and most extensive in Tehran; and there
exists an entire industry and subgenre of “war films,” complete with state-
sponsored conferences and film festivals. Furthermore, the powerful gov-
ernment agency and lobby group of the Martyr’s Co-operation continues
to provide tax breaks, college scholarships, and other financial and gov-
ernmental support for the widows and families of war martyrs, reaffirming
the state’s continued recognition of the families’ sacrifices. The murals of
young men in uniform exemplify the dangerous binary of the state’s spe-
cific form of commemorative propaganda: epic and authoritative in size
and scope, but banal in their permanent position in the cityscape, scarcely
noticed by local passersby. The prosaic nature of the monuments and their
integration into the Iranian landscape signals the deep inscription of the
Iran-Iraq War into the public realm, a visual arena where the billboards
dotting the many urban highways alternate between images of shampoo
bottles and telev ision sets and sweeping panoramas of soldiers walking
off into the sunset, bright, painterly colors used in a strange juxtaposition
with the mournful imagery depicted. It is through such a positioning in
the public spaces that the ubiquity and permanence of these images has
rendered them no longer shocking, but banal, their potency and efficacy
arising not from their ability to be noticed and effective but from their
infiltration of the everyday: their “everydayness” rendering them a part of
national consciousness.
Ultimately, by reinscribing the narrative of the “Holy Defense” into
the still-unfolding narrative of postrevolutionary Iran—rendering visible
the memories of the absent young men (they have not died, they have
been turned into image, the body robbed of the opportunity to be corpse
but only spirit, transformed into paint and color), names of otherwise in-
nocuous streets and public squares are turned into signifiers of war, such
that utterances of war-related phenomena infiltrate everyday conversation
(Where is the drug store? Behind the Garden of the Martyrs)—the state
may continue to operate under the logic of war or, more specifically, under
the logic of threat. Indeed, by continually reinserting the visual and lin-
guistic presence of the Iran-Iraq War into the present day, not only is the
state formulating an origin story for the Islamic Republic, a nation forged

in defiance of both the imperial powers and Saddam’s Sunni-secular
army, it also proposes the idea that the continued existence of the na-
tion rests upon the ability to keep t hese forces at bay. To remain ever
vigilant: such is both the promise and the command of the authority
figures, and it is this reason that demands the nation operate through a
logic of threat.10
To begin, a logic of threat implies a logic tied to a specific temporal
matrix, for the notion of an imminent threat undeniably implies that the
future is at risk, the possibility that the state of things may cease to exist
in their current manifestation. Thus, a logic of threat implies both the
promise of a possibility of a future as well as the possibility of its destruc-
tion, the present constructed in order to preserve its past. By operating
under the assumption of an ever-present threat, then, t hese commemo-
rative tactics of the state speak less to the present than to the f uture; in
other words, these summonings—v isual and rhetorical—of past trauma
are engaged most directly not with the present, but with the f uture: the
contemporary realm subsumed under the weight of both the past and
the future, serving only as placeholder. On the one hand, the past is felt
so acutely in the everyday that the present is only able to situate itself as a
sort of remainder, that which exists as aftermath, as if perpetually caught
within the immediate moment a fter the catastrophe. Furthermore, as
result of this, the e nemy and cause of injury that existed in the past re-
mains ever near: hence the immanence and imminence of threat, until
the primary goal of the vulnerable present is to position itself in such a
way as to preserve the possibility of a future. Thus, remembrance within
Iran emerges as a way to subsume the present under both the future and
the past.
As has been extensively written about, there are many other forms of
memorialization offering opportunities for the inscription of the past into
the present within postrevolutionary Iran, most notably the commemora-
tion of the Karbala narrative, a story of sacrifice and martyrdom that lays
some of the conceptual and spiritual cornerstones of Shi‘ism. I focus h ere,
however briefly, on the commemoration of the Iran-Iraq War due to (1) its
occurrence in the immediate past, such that individual memories persist
in a substantial portion of the population, although there is a generational
shift occurring;11 and (2) its ability to operate on both the personal and
national registers, an event that impacted the vast majority of those living
within Iranian borders on an intimate level, providing a personal experi-
ence by which to judge/measure that the national narrative presented.
154 Chapter Four

Considering the importance of commemoration within the construc-
tion and preservation of the national narrative of postrevolutionary Iran,
it would appear that the Sufis’ reaction to the destruction of the meeting
place at Takhteh-Foulad would exist in direct opposition to such an em-
phasis on preservation and insertion of past traumatic events into the con
temporary realm. Indeed, a cursory glance would seem to display a series
of neat binaries: an active forgetting versus an active remembrance, a will-
ful amnesia over willful remembrance, rejection over affirmation. Where
the clerical establishment has chosen the path of memorialization, recon-
structing visuals to render the absent present, the Sufis have embarked
upon an arguably more challenging arc to render the present absent, most
notably when the physical ruins remained around them. And while it is
certainly undeniable that the choices and actions of these two groups
contain deep intellectual differences, upon closer examination, it may be
argued that the positions of both contain certain theological resonances.
Contrary to the binaries presented, it may be argued that t here exists a
certain Shi‘i mode of thinking, which I hope to address here.
Ja‘fari versus Nimatullahi Understanding of Shi‘i Remembrance
Zekr is the heart of Shi‘ism, and Sufism is the heart of Shi‘ism.

seyed mustafa azmayesh, morvarid-e sufi-gari (2008)
ere is remembrance, and t here is zekr. And, as the above quotes articu-
Th
late, the two are not the same.
Up u ntil this point, I have been translating “zekr” as “remembrance” or
“mindfulness”; here, however, it is clear that to consider zekr as a form of
remembrance or memory proves a poor understanding: it is rather some-
thing only “akin to memory.” If we understand memory as an act of pres-
ervation, a process by which to crystallize and store that which has come
to pass, then zekr instead proves a phenomenon that not only maintains
knowledge but “renders it present.” Zekr appears as an intellectual exercise
whereby a specific instance of stored knowledge is brought forward, a
summoning to both reaffirm and reenter into the present that has been
kept. Following this, as al-Isfahani explains, t here exist two types of zekr,
one that “follows forgetfulness” and another that does not involve forget-
ting at all, but instead “expresses a continuous remembering.” Thus, to
rearticulate, we see not only distinctions between zekr and memory, but

within zekr itself, a distinction that may be all the more transparent when
we consider the ways in which these two interpretations are adopted by
the government of the Islamic Republic and the Sufis respectively. And
while the importance of zekr within Sufi practice has been demonstrated
thus far, before examining t hese divisions more closely it is worthwhile
to understand the “rendering present” of zekr that is evident within more
“orthodox” forms of Shi‘i jurisprudence.
To begin more generally, within the Qur’an zekr is often translated as an
“invocation,”12 as seen in the following passages:
And invoke the Name of thy Lord morning and evening. (76:25)
And invoke the Name of thy Lord, devoting thyself to Him with utter
devotion. (73:8)
O ye who believe! Invoke God with much invocation. (33:41)
Call upon thy Lord in humility and in secret. (7:55)
And invoke thy Lord within thyself, in humility and awe, and beneath
thy breath, in the morning and in the night. (7:205)
Zekr as invocation emerges hence as a method to achieve a ceaseless form

of devotion, a practice to be done “morning and evening,” in order to reaf-
firm the place of the divine throughout the day. The interior, possibly silent
or inaudible, form of invocation is also emphasized, where the calling upon
is conducted “in humility and in secret,” and “beneath thy breath,” an in-
timate form of summoning that possesses a physical as well as spiritual
proximity to the faithful, sounds barely escaping beyond the mouth, the
words as fragile as a memory. Perhaps all acts of remembrance contain an
element of invocation, where that which was once known is again beck-
oned forward, but it might be argued that the intentionality behind this
kind of willful calling forward would set it apart from other forms of re-
membrance, even if there are certain resonances within both.
Within the text of Nahj Al Balaghe,13 the collection of letters, sermons,
and sayings attributed to Imam Ali and the second holiest text within
Ja‘fari Shi‘ism, the importance of a “continuous remembering” is also seen:
And establish the prayers for the sake of My remembrance. (20:14)
Remember God with much remembrance. (33:41)
Prayer keepeth one from indecency and evil, while the remembrance of
God is greater. (29:45).
And remember the name of his Lord, so prayeth. (87:15)
156 Chapter Four

Then He gave him heart with memory, tongue to talk and eye to see with,
in order that he may take lesson (from whatever is around him) and under-
stand it and follow the admonition and abstain from evil. (Sermon 82)
Although this is only a small selection of passages that refer to remem-

brance, Imam Ali frequently discusses the theme throughout the text,
especially in relation to prayer, in several instances placing hierarchizing
memory over prayer. In particular, “remember God with much remem-
brance” is similar to the translation of the aya in the Qur’an to “invoke God
with much invocation,” such that the verb and the noun are one and the
same, suggesting that the act is a means unto itself. Perhaps most revealing
of memory as rendering present is the idea of “heart with memory” in the
passage from Sermon 82,14 indicating that an act of recollection draws from
an a priori source, that the heart, center of emotion, spirituality, and, often,
instinct, would be able to bring forth the name and presence of the divine,
rather than the mind.
With these too few examples of the role of remembrance within the spir-
itual texts of Ja‘fari Shi‘ism, what I have hoped to demonstrate here is
that zekr indicates not only the act of remembrance but a remembrance
intentionally summoned forward, a mindfulness as integrally tied to the cre-
ation of knowledge as it is to the preservation of knowledge. Furthermore,
as previously discussed, it has been the objective of the Iranian government
to continually reinsert the episodes of the past into the present, the images
and memories reinserted into the consciousness of Iranians for as long as
deemed productive. In both cases too, both forms of invocation are depen-
dent upon a “zekr of the tongue,” one that implies a memory reimagined in
such a way that it is made and/or exists external to oneself, through e ither a
whispered utterance, a spiritual belief/thought made tangible, or an elabo-
rate visual depiction rendered large onto the side of a building, grabbing
the attention of otherwise distracted passersby. Ultimately, it is clear to see
the parallels between the political tactics of the current regime and the spir-
itual directives of the texts that guide them, such that Shi‘i remembrance
remains as involved with the present and future as with the past.
Returning to the al-Isfahani quote, let us now turn to the second form
of zekr mentioned, the zekr of the heart, that which “follows forgetfulness.”
Notice too, that this form of zekr is still closely linked to remembrance, but is
distinct from the “continuous remembering” of the previous form. Indeed,
by following forgetfulness, it would appear that it would indicate some sort

of break, a rupture in the mindfulness, only to be reaffirmed again. In other
words: in order to reformulate and re-create that moment of recognition,
it needs to vanish just so that it may reemerge again, its disappearance as
crucial as its reappearance, the prescription of an epistemological void so
that the individual may experience the reemergence of that mindfulness.
Similarly, the Sufis have done something similar, perhaps a strange inverse:
they remember to forget. Just as the Qur’an commands one to “invoke the
name of God,” the sheikhs advised the faithful to actively try and extinguish
the memory of the hosseiniyeh, an invocation of forgetting. Ultimately, if
it may be argued that the Sufis have implemented a form of active forget-
ting, or willful amnesia, as I have been calling it here, then, just as the zekr
as mindfulness may involve disremembering, so too may a willful amnesia
involve a sort of layer of remembrance as well.
Furthermore, it appears as if the two Shi‘i groups in question have both
turned to the concept and practice of zekr in order to fulfill their respec-
tive objectives: one to reinscribe the traumas of the past into the present,
giving evidence for the need for a strong, central government to ensure
that these traumas may not be experienced again; the other in order to
declare their disinterest and disengagement with the sociopolitical as well
as material realm. Rather than positioning the groups as wholly hetero-
dox and orthodox, the clerical establishment in opposition to the mysti-
cal outliers, h ere we see both entities utilizing different interpretations of
Shi‘i epistemology, demonstrating slight shifts in their understanding of a
deeply complex and nuanced idea. Thus, when attempting to understand
the dynamic between this particular Sufi order and the governing author-
ity, whether they be the central government or local municipality, through
the prism of zekr, it is clear that such modes of oppositional thinking prove
insufficient. We might consider in the place of this binary a particular dis-
cursive tradition, one where two groups, whose faiths both claim to be the
“heart of Shi‘ism,” draw upon a long history of the importance of remem-
brance within Shi‘i scholarship, culminating in differing interpretations of
the same theme. One embracing the “remembrance to forget,” the other a
more direct, perhaps less circular form of recollection. The similarities in
tactics then must also be noted as much as the divergences, as ultimately
both Sufi and Ja‘fari are adding to the multiplicity of interpretations of
Shi‘ism in Iran today.
158 Chapter Four

An Impossible Apolitics
Abandon these tales of yesterday and tomorrow.

Now is the time to change yourself!
shah nimatullah vali, in javad nurbakhsh,
ma‘arif-i sufiya (1983)
Until the coronavirus pandemic swept through the world, individual Sufis
still gathered outside the grave on Fridays for evening prayers. They gath-
ered not as a group, but individually, going to a small alleyway behind the
new wall, but primarily praying inside the cemetery. “We did not want
to attract attention,” I was told at the time, “but we don’t think they w ill
bother us if we don’t go in a large group.” When asked again about the
destruction of the tekiyeh and what has happened since, the responses
are still wildly mixed, largely depending on the individual’s relationship
to myself.
Let us reconsider Takhteh-Foulad and the events that transpired there.
Most notably, up until this moment we have focused mainly on the Sufis’
reaction to the razing of the site, and how we might understand their
decision to disremember the building. In t hese concluding spaces, how-
ever, it is worth examining the incident more wholly from beginning to
end, from the initial sign posted upon the door to their continued praying
in the alleyway. In looking at the larger narrative t here appears to be a turn-
ing point in the tactics and responses employed, before the destruction
and a fter, a stark contrast in their actions and reactions. Initially, the Sufis
employed a number of tactics in their attempts to prevent the demolition:
appealing to the authorities, looking to family connections within the bu-
reaucracy, various avenues of dialogue and negotiations that culminated
with the confrontation on the night of the destruction. Such methods of
direct engagement are typical techniques by which individuals and collec-
tives may attempt to thwart the actions of the political bodies that govern
them, and the order embraced these methods wholeheartedly. Why then,
in the aftermath of the devastation at Takhteh-Foulad, a fter such resis
tance had been mounted—sleeping through cold nights, risking arrest or
worse—did their oppositional consciousness seem to dissipate so quickly?
One might offer that it did not disappear, it merely changed forms.
Perhaps not even changed forms, but perhaps what occurred was a shift:
a shift in the way that the order wished to view the incident. Initially, the
matter was approached on what might be called a societal or bureaucratic

level, where attempts w ere made to navigate the various institutes and to
contact appropriate authorities, all means by which they might confront
the municipality directly. Just as the municipality claimed the reason for
the destruction was “beautification” of the neighborhood, meaning the
building was destroyed for purely civil purposes, so too did the Sufis ap-
proach the instance as an entirely civil matter, ultimately resulting in an act
not dissimilar to civil disobedience, action met with counteraction.
After the demolition, however, the mystics never contacted the authori-
ties again, spoke only to a few media figures immediately a fter the event
and then, at least in theory, spoke of the matter no further. This public si-
lence, however, did not imply that the Sufis w ere no longer concerned with
what transpired at Takhteh-Foulad, nor had they dismissed it completely.
The incident was rather approached from an entirely different light, the
terms of the debate reconfigured wholly: now the removal of the hosseini-
yeh would be approached through a mystical lens. Rather than confronta-
tion, t here is evasion; rather than direct opposition, a strange sideways tac-
tic has been espoused, the sociopolitical realm abandoned in favor of one
with which it was largely unconcerned. It is in this way that the Sufi order
has rendered the municipality’s actions impotent: One can never lose if
they have never played at all.
Is this resistance? There are shades of defiance here, undoubtedly, if we
are to understand resistance as actions or thoughts explicitly reactionary to
some oppositional force. More often, resistance is framed as a persecuted
group taking some form of active measure in response to a governing body
that has impinged upon their autonomy or self-preservation in some way
or form; and one might argue that the mystics’ response to the Isfahani
municipal government, working in tandem with the national government,
would prove just such an example. The Sufis’ ultimate response, however,
or nonresponse, their very deliberate actions to “ignore” the event in their
own way, adds a layer of ambiguity that might problematize such a cat-
egorization. If resistance is deliberative action in response to antagonistic
forces, how does deliberative forgetting register?
Beyond simply resistance, however, this might be understood as a tactic
first and foremost. What is a tactic? Both method and maneuver, it is an act
that is calculated, purposeful, and intentional. A tactic is something that is
designed to respond to a certain dilemma or obstacle, and hence is molded
by the contours of the problem it wishes to navigate, the formation of a
conceptual counterpoint. Thus, when considering the mystics’ actions, one
might categorize them as a form of tactical endeavor, one that involves a
160 Chapter Four

certain mode of resistance but is not wholly defined by it. In other words,
their decision to not directly engage with the municipal government and the
larger systems of power was a form of resistance by the fact that they chose
to prioritize their metaphysical needs first—the primacy of the remem-
brance of God—thereby demonstrating the impotency and irrelevance of
the state in light of their own epistemological and spiritual framework. Just
as they did with their civil tactics, they continued to approach the incident
through careful deliberation after the destruction, merely shifting their re-
sponse to consider what the building was addressing all along: the spiritual
needs of the faithful. In this way, the entire incident has been reframed as a
spiritual exercise, as devoid of politics as they might make it, an unknowing
of memory, which, given the context, is a highly politicized act.
Unknowing of Memory
What does it mean to unknow a memory? The strangest of exercises,

to question oneself at such profound registers, acting as both skeptic
and believer, both pushing and pulling against a single idea, refuting in-
formation that exists on the most fundamental of levels. Ultimately, this
form of refutation of knowledge implements an instance of self-doubt so
severe that it undermines not only the ontological status of places and
things, but one’s own cognitive faculties and emotions, propelling one to
question the very nature of their own reality. Indeed, such an upending of
reality—outside of some form of psychotic break—is only possible when
the parameters of what constitutes “reality” itself might be reconfigured.
To demand such malleability from the Real undermines the understanding
of reality as a totality, that which is unchanging and exists as a temporally
and ontologically contained whole. In this instance, then, we must turn to
Sufi understandings of what constitutes that which might be considered
“real.” Furthermore, we must also consider the epistemologies demanded
by such systems of reality, and it is in this way that we turn to mystical
logic; it is here that we might see how the dream logic is in play. Before that,
however, let us revisit mystical notions of the real.
As previously discussed, within contemporary mysticism one of the
primary debates revolves around the discernment of that which is real and
that which is i magined, that which is veiled and that which is revealed. And
perhaps the aspect that we must keep first and foremost in our minds is
that the Sufis believe that such a thing that might be called reality does exist,

but it is only the most enlightened beings who are able to experience it as
such. Beyond this, just as t here are stations on the path, t here exists various
stations of reality that become transparent as one advances further along
the path, as if one’s sight was slowly coming into focus. A more commonly
used analogy, however, is the idea of wakefulness and dreaming, or that
those who have reached tawhid are the only beings who are considered
ever truly awake. As such, very few are ever said to have achieved full wake-
fulness, only saints and other holy figures, as even the qotbs and sheikhs are
seen as only positioned higher on the path. It is safe to assume, then, that
the Sufis practicing at Takhteh-Foulad would have considered themselves
enshrouded from the real, residing instead in a state of dozing somnolence,
and it is from this vantage point that we might consider the epistemologi-
cal foundations guiding their actions.
The mystics have attempted to manipulate the real because the Ral is
not available to them, merely a strange dreamworld that is itself an illu-
sion. One of the key aspects of Sufism is the recognition of the inacces-
sibility of the Real. With Takhteh-Foulad, they affirm its illusory nature by
exploiting the artifice and illusion that comprises this elusive in-between,
partially revealed stage.15 Furthermore, it is imperative to realize the power
of subjectivity ensconced within this worldview: not only for manipulat-
ing the illusion, but for constructing it as well. And it is h ere, then, where
the ontological and the existential are collapsed into one, that the dream
logic takes hold: if all life is a dream, then it may be as you dream it. If real
ity is unavailable to us and we are thus only able to understand the external
world as a dream, then only oneiric thinking might be used to both affirm
and navigate such a realm.
Furthermore, not only is it the thinker/dreamer who constructs this
strange space, as Bachelard has noted, but there is also no difference be-
tween them: “The dreamer is the double consciousness of his well-being
and of the happy world. His cogito is not divided into the dialectic of sub-
ject and object.”16 In other words, the dreamer constructs both self and
world. Certainly, the phenomenological implications of both the Sufis’
thought and Bachelard are great: the difference is that the Sufis believe
that t here is in fact an a priori reality—it is merely out of reach—whereas
Bachelard would disavow any forms of apriority altogether. The similari-
ties lie instead in the fact that both “journeys” are driven entirely by the
subject; time and time again it is the individual and the individual alone
who is made responsible for his spiritual development. Bachelard distin-
guishes between the dream and reverie: the former overtakes us, uncon-
162 Chapter Four

scious thoughts dominating conscious thoughts, whereas reverie is more
akin to a daydream, a mode of conscious thinking implemented by the in-
dividual, active dreaming versus passive dreaming: “In such encounters, a
Poetics of Reverie becomes conscious of its tasks: causing consolidations
of i magined worlds, developing the audacity of constructive reverie, af-
firming itself in a dreamer’s clear consciousness, coordinating liberties,
finding some true thing in all the indisciplines of language, opening all the
prisons of the being so that the human possesses all becomings. Those are
just so many often contradictory tasks lying between what concentrates
the being and what exalts it.”17 Within an unknowing of memory, no less of
a claim is made than the supremacy of the imaginary over the actual. The
gentle daydream, in its implementation, rendered bold. In offering a group
solution as to how to react to the destruction of their meeting place, the
sheikhs have offered a united imaginary front, a “consolidation,” as Bach-
elard notes, of a dream. If reverie is conscious dreaming, then a poetics
of reverie is the careful assemblage and shepherding of these ephemeral
thoughts, as a conductor moving notes through the air.
And so we have found ourselves in the “audacity of constructive rev-
erie,” by a small group of individuals who insisted on what might be called
a dream, an idea “suggested” to them by their spiritual leaders, t hose they
trust the most. And although there were those within the order who did
not put into practice these ideas, none refuted or challenged them, none
made the case for another tactic. Th ose who did not attempt to “actively
forget” simply acknowledged that it was too difficult for them to do so.
Otherwise, they joined the rest in forgoing the memory of their space, the
memory of its destruction, so that they might more closely adhere to the
zekr that had been proscribed to them. Such is the audacity of the politics
of apolitics.
When even a memory may be unlearned, a greater risk has been re-
vealed: when the knowledge of a memory may be overturned, then the
actuality of all greater knowledge too remains malleable, open, and at risk.
As is understood within Sufi thought, to possess knowledge of something
does not represent possession of an absolute, but rather an open engage-
ment with a thought. To return once more to a previously quoted passage
by Majzub‘alishah: “Literally, erfan [gnosis] is knowing. Yet knowing has
different stages . . . gnosis is not an absolute m
atter. It is something that, as
the philosophers say, is graduated (tashkiki) such as light and faith, which
have degrees. . . . More than anything else . . . this process continues end-
lessly.”18 Again, we see h ere both knowledge and the project of mysticism

as synonymous entities, so closely intertwined as to be inseparable, both
dedicated to the implementation of the practice of the irresolution of
thought.
Thus, by invoking their own mystical epistemologies, the Sufis at
Takhteh-Foulad have contested not only the actions of the authorities, but
the finality of the event itself. They have here applied the ideas within the
zekr ritual—that forgetting may also be understood to be intimately tied
to remembrance, such that one might actively forget just as one might ac-
tively remember—as well as those ideas pertaining to the unreality of the
world to respond to the destruction of the tekiyeh on their own terms.
There exist many stories of what transpired, or what did not transpire, at
Takhteh-Foulad, and the Sufis’ disavowal of the authorities’ actions have
in the end invoked a strange political turn. On the one hand, we witness
the implementation of apolitics at its most extreme, the most blatant form
of disengagement, one what might even venture to say denial, of a politi
cally motivated series of actions that had a directly negative outcome on
the group itself. And it might be safe to stop t here, to simply categorize
the actions of a spiritual group uninterested in the broader social realm
as a part of a larger system of belief. On the other hand, we have a group
who has essentially denied the authorities any agency and in a sense has
stripped them of their power by refuting the very actions that allow them
to reassert their dominance.
In the end, however, it might be argued that e ither assessment re-
mains contingent upon the question of perspective: from the perspective
of the authorities and the broader Iranian sociopolitical sphere, a group
has deemed the actions of the state apparatus irrelevant—despite its di-
rectly negative outcome on its own affairs—and such a maneuver might
be viewed as a distinctly political act, one that reaffirms the dialectics of
power through its very denial. From the perspective of the Sufis, however,
or perhaps more specifically the perspective put forward by the sheikhs,
this has been viewed first and foremost as an exercise in mystical thought
and practice, an occasion where the potential within their own epistemol-
ogies to help navigate a world at times hostile to such ideals has been car-
ried out to the fullest extent.
164 Chapter Four

5 Unknowing of Place
And you have spread yourself upon everywhere,

and where has lost its where-ness.
mansur al-hallaj, ana al-haqq reconsidered (1972)
In the auditory category, we have here an immense sound-

miniature, the miniature of an entire cosmos that speaks
softly. Faced with such a miniature of world sounds as this, a
phenomenologist must systematically point out all that goes
beyond perception, organically as well as objectively.
gaston bachelard, the poetics of space (1994)
A sound emerges. Faint at first, the type of noise that operates more
as question than sensation, prompting one to seek confirmation: Do
you hear that? It is late afternoon and, as in most Iranian urban resi-
dential areas, the neighborhood is largely quiet, the stillness punctu-
ated only by the occasional car or passerby. Only distance is keeping
us from hearing this sound then, and our movements forward allow
its tones to come into sharper relief.
We have been listening for this sound, so its emergence does not
come as a surprise. As we walk t oward it we pass rows of middle-class
apartment buildings, the most popular form of housing in Iran, one
after the other, with cars lining the perimeter of the street. Some-
times the buildings are set back from the street, a garden protected
by high walls in front of the building, others without a walled garden.
While it’s not typical to hear music being broadcast, it is not enough
to cause alarm or a deep surprise, simply something to be observed and
noted. We have been told to listen for this sound, to follow it to its source,
and so that is what we are doing.
Its increase in volume allows the noises to come into focus and assume
form: a quiet song of a daf, a large frame drum. It is played by tapping and
rolling the fingers and knuckles in various formations against the skin of
the drum, punctuated by short slaps and caresses by a flattened palm. The
sound it produces is not unlike that of rain on a rooftop.
“Ah, this must be their alley [kucheh],” my companion, Nickoo, notes.
The two of us move more slowly, trying to identify which building the
music—no longer just sounds now—emanates from, u ntil finally we settle
on a shorter building with speckled gray stone and a front garden. The daf
drumming is clearly coming from this garden, penetrating the thick stone
wall and spilling out into the street. We’ve found our destination.
“Oh good, we found it, that wasn’t too bad.”
On the pedestrian gate, the family names for the apartments inside are
smudged and largely worn away, and we scan them fruitlessly. This is the
building, but which apartment is not clear. And while the rollicking and
rolling sound of the gentle daf has summoned us to this spot, outside a
white wall and gray brick building, technology w ill guide us the rest of
the way.
Nickoo takes out her cell phone. “Can you buzz us in?”
A harsh buzz sounds, a clanging lock releases, and the door snaps
slightly open. We enter the doorway and make our way inside. As we walk
through the courtyard, we pass a small personal stereo on top of a chair,
playing music. It is positioned near the front of the courtyard, but not di-
rectly b ehind the wall, not close enough to block the sound that emanates
from it. We make our way inside the building.
Inside the apartment, we are the last to arrive and are greeted with an
almost festive atmosphere. About a dozen p eople are seated along the
ground and on the sofa, talking and laughing among themselves, seated
not in the formal guest room, with its sharp edges and reflective surfaces,
but squeezed into the smaller and softer living room, where the body might
relax along with the furniture. Although of the p eople who are t here only
some are family, there is no question this room is the appropriate choice.
There are books scattered around too—some dog-eared, some new—as
ubiquitous as the cups of tea and snacks filling the space.
“So you found us!”
“Of course! I received excellent directions!”
166 Chapter five

“It was loud enough, then? We didn’t want to annoy the neighbors, but
we wanted to make sure you heard it from the street. I actually went out
into the street to check.”
“No, you had it at just the right volume.”
“So, it turned out well.” And then, with a laugh: “You see what kinds of
things we have to think of in Iran!?”
This small group of young p eople had been holding such creatively or
ganized reading groups for a l ittle less than three months, and then had
stopped, citing the difficulty in coordinating everyone’s schedules as the
main reason for discontinuing the sessions.
The group was composed of approximately fifteen young p eople, both
men and w omen, who ranged in age from nineteen to thirty-four. Of this
core group, about ten had attended a “formal” Sufi gathering, meaning
a gathering organized and led by a Sufi sheikh, at least once, and of that
group half were either “officially” members of an order, or children of of-
ficial members. During their meetings, they read aloud and discussed se
lections from the canon of medieval Persian poetry, sometimes choosing
pieces beforehand, other times choosing at random. They concluded each
session with what is called a fal: a sort of fortune-telling game, very com-
mon throughout the country and certainly not an activity exclusive to the
Sufi community, involving a book of the poetry of Hafez that is passed
around. After this discussion of everyone’s fate, the session would come to
a close or the already relaxed atmosphere would shift into a purely social
gathering.
My focus h ere is less the content of such meetings, but more the curi-
ous way in which the sessions were organized and made known to their
members. More specifically, what led to the decision to take such pains
to broadcast their locations audibly rather than simply deciding upon a
predetermined location? What does such a tactic reveal about their un-
derstanding of ma‘rifat, and how might it give rise to an alternative “Sufi
space”?
When I spoke to my interlocutors, I asked them why and how they de
cided upon their unique method of convening. In their responses to me,
they told me about their desire to devise a “Sufi way of meeting.” Afsaneh,
a woman in her midtwenties who carried with her a well-worn family copy
of a volume of Rumi’s Masnavi, described it as follows: “We get together
[jam mishim] and discuss themes of these mystical works [matn-e erfani],
so shouldn’t the way we come together be related to that?” Central to their
discussions was the importance of wandering (sargardan, suluk)1 and
Unknowing of Place 167

listening (sama), two concepts that have long held places of importance
within mystical epistemologies.
And these young Sufis took a very particul ar hermeneutic stance toward
the concept of wandering: they approach it in the literal sense, meaning
wandering is understood to require actual physical movements of the
body and dislocation of place. This is in contrast with other Sufi thinkers
who approach wandering in a figurative or nonliteral sense, typically as a
metaphor for one’s personal journey to achieve union with God (tawhid).
This embrace of a literal interpretation of wandering is also noteworthy,
as itinerancy has long fallen out of favor with the overwhelming major-
ity of Sufis in Iran over the last hundred years, with all—save for the odd
qalandar (wandering ascetic) here and there—living sedentary lives. In-
stead, t hese young Sufis’ interpretation of both wandering and sama is one
that favors materialism and sensoriality over metaphor and indexicality.2
As Bita, a middle-school teacher in her late twenties who taught English-
and French-language classes on the side, told me: “It’s the only time I walk
slow.” This observation of her slowness, which could only become appar-
ent through a physical instantiation of wandering, was clearly significant
enough to Bita that she remarked upon it and that it meant something to
her. Literal interpretation is too often viewed as a result of a lack of imagi-
nation, a dour form of interpretation that leaves little room for real engage-
ment, but h ere t here was a lightness to our conversations, a sense of play
and fun, which will be discussed in greater detail in a l ater section.
By examining the example of this small group and their creative applica-
tion of theories of mystical ideas, we might better understand the ways that
a Sufi community has reinterpreted the mystical ideals of old to create an
alternative Islamic space in postrevolutionary Iran. What are the markers,
both visible and invisible, that demarcate the boundaries of this transient
Sufi space, a listened-for soundscape that appears and disappears at the
w ill of its organizers? How can listening be used to generate a different
form of collective space? In what way is movement involved in this en-
terprise? Are t hese i magined spaces and, if so, how does that fact relate to
perception as related to the real? In analyzing these questions, we may be
able to understand the aesthetics as an epistemic practice, one tied to the
questioning of unknowing, as well as the advantages and disadvantages of
operating within a space that remains never fully known, perhaps even to
the Sufis themselves.
This chapter traces the construction of a listened-for soundscape,
one whose building blocks are sound, movement, and the hermeneutic
168 Chapter five

imagination. Here, mystical epistemologies have emerged as a form of
urban inscription, one where ideas, originating in the textual and con-
ceptual spheres, have been translated into spatial form to create a Sufi
soundscape. An inscription and a carving, they have marked the streets,
the vibrations of the sounds leaving an invisible residue on the homes and
alleyways. And, just as we have seen before with texts, bodies, and memo-
ries, here too space and place become unbounded entities. There is an un-
knowing of place, one that acts again as the contestation of finitude, this
time through the construction of a soundscape that is both a contained
and uncontained entity, a reconfiguration of streets and alleyways into a
shape-shifting and ever inchoate aural sphere.
To better understand this construction, I will first investigate the con-
ditions and circumstances that inspired the participants to imagine and
instantiate such an activity, whereupon the actions of the municipal gov-
ernment (shahrdari) initiated a reimagining of collective Sufi space. From
there, I analyze how the group’s hermeneutics are broadly informed by a
particul ar critical lens t oward their own tradition, one that, in a shift from
that of their own order, favors the literal over the metaphorical. For the
rest of the chapter, I focus on how two key concepts, intentional listen-
ing (sama) and wandering (sargardan), are specifically utilized in the con-
struction of this collective space, providing both a philosophical and an
aesthetic framework that together accentuate the tenuous and amorphous
nature of the soundscape, shaped by the political stakes of meeting and the
processes and ideals of spiritual transformations. I conclude by returning
to the broader context by investigating what it means for such a space to
exist within postrevolutionary Iran.
Before moving into deeper analytical waters, a note regarding the afore-
mentioned concepts: mystical wandering, known as suluk or sargardan,
and intentional listening, known as sama,3 which we have seen briefly be-
fore. Here, sama refers more specifically to a form of audition that should
be understood as (1) distinct from the more passive hearing, and (2) not
only an engaged form of listening, but one that is accompanied by the
highest intentionality and attention (tavajo) of the listener, an intention to
achieve a sense of the ultimate union with God (tawhid).
Wandering, an extremely common metaphor within Sufi thought, sig-
nifies the means of traveling on the “Sufi path” of spiritual development. It
is not a linear journey that one takes when pursuing such abstract goals, but
one of a meandering and even directionless nature. At the same time, how-
ever, these wanderings are to be understood not as aimless, but purposeful.

In this way, they move t oward a paradox: intentional wanderings. A space
that remains never fully known to its own inhabitants, t here are clear reso-
nances here with forms of thinking and knowledge that reveal not answers
but further questions, another seemingly paradoxical phenomenon of a
knowledge that reveals not a finalized thought but an awareness that one
knows nothing, as one does when considering the divine. Through creat-
ing t hese aesthetic and material experiences, bursting forth from the Sufi
canon and subsequently s haped through their own hermeneutics, t hese
young Sufis have created a space that remains ever inchoate and transient,
one that is marked as much by its ability to appear as it is by its ability to
disappear.
Whither Resistance? Catalysts and Cancellations
The original impetus to organize the meetings at all came in the wake
of the cancellation of official Sufi gatherings at a sheikh’s house in a residen-
tial neighborhood by the local authorities. During t hese weekly meetings,
group prayers were said and either a sermon (sokhanrani) was delivered by
an elder (pir) or a cd of a sermon by a spiritual leader (qotb) was played.
Such gatherings had been g oing on for years, and the order had been con-
vening in that particular location for close to a decade, when one day a
person came from the local authorities and stated that the Sufis w ere no
longer to hold their gatherings at this location. When asked why, the of-
ficial reason given was that it was clear that a residential home was being
used for commercial purposes, and so they must desist immediately.4 The
mystics attempted to assure the official that nothing was being sold on
the premises, nor was anyone paying to attend—in other words, the home
was not being used for “commercial” purposes as they understood it. The
authority figure, however, remained unconvinced and repeated his order.
Not wishing to pursue the matter further, the Sufis ended the meetings
entirely.
After these official meetings w
ere stopped, the order no longer met in
any “official” capacity, and the sheikhs recommended traveling to Tehran
to attend large gatherings instead. On holidays and other special occasions,
however, people would still gather locally, usually in a gender-segregated
capacity, and invite either a sheikh or a female elder to deliver a sermon or
lead a poetry reading, prayer sessions, or mourning ritual. Th ese g atherings,
170 Chapter five

however, were infrequent. The collective described in this article, however,
did continue to meet on a regular basis.
It is important to note that it is quite possible that these creatively orga
nized gatherings probably would not have occurred had the original, larger
meetings not been disbanded in the first place. Indeed, had the local au-
thorities not responded in the way they did, had the legal standing in Iran
been more clear, perhaps the young p eople would never have taken the
initiative. Or perhaps they would have taken up this unique form of listen-
ing practice on their own. It is impossible to know.
As such, one could posit that this soundscape should be understood
primarily in light of this cancellation, arguing that this interpretation and
application of Sufi concept acts as a mystical response to local politics first
and foremost, where mystical epistemologies provide the solution to what
is essentially a problem between a local group and the authorities. I am
uncomfortable to center my analysis around this narrative for two reasons.
First and foremost, the actions of the state (dowlat), or even how the
municipal authorities (shahrdari) might pose a problem (geer bedan, in the
colloquial), were almost entirely absent from my conversations with my
interlocutors. When asked why and how they decided upon their unique
method of assembling, their responses consisted of discussions around
engaging with mystical ideals they encountered in texts and sermons;
of envisioning a “Sufi way of meeting.” The only ways the actions of the
municipality came into the conversations was as a starting point: “After
the meetings w ere cancelled.” So while the dispersal of the original, larger
meetings certainly acted as a catalyst, my conversations with my interlocu-
tors reveal that “responding” to the cancellations was not r eally a priority
for them.
Second, I fear that such a framing—understanding the soundscape
primarily as a response to the municipality—runs into very tired tropes
of “resistance.” This not only belies the deeply complicated, fragmented,
and disparate relationships between mystical groups, broadly writ, and the
Iranian authorities in both their national and local instantiations, but also
does injustice to the complexity of the epistemologies employed by the
Sufis themselves. There are abstruse theological concepts at play here; to
categorize such hermeneutic stances under the umbrella of “resistance” is
to reduce the complexity of their thinking to a s imple “us v. them” para-
digm. Perhaps theological experimentation is not as interesting to some
analysts as “state power,” but it was clearly the former for the Sufi c ollective

themselves. As such, I have centered my analysis around how the interpre-
tation and application of mystical epistemologies gave rise to the con-
struction of a transient Sufi soundscape.
Of Games and History, or Fun with Hermeneutics
I met with my interlocutors on a number of occasions, usually in a group

setting, to discuss their decision-making process, to understand how such
a unique method of convening came about. In their responses to me, they
spoke of the importance of wandering, of listening with an open heart, and
of their affections for the Sufis of old, how in centuries past certain mystics
would travel from city to city for years at a time, sometimes searching for
the perfect teacher with whom to study, sometimes adhering to itinerancy
for their entire lives. “We all love the story of how [the mystical poets]
Shams and Rumi met,” Nazanin told me, describing the apocryphal first
encounter between the wandering darvish Shams and the sedentary Rumi,
where the former proceeds to upend the latter’s previously respectable life.
“If they h adn’t met, if Shams h adn’t gone to Konya [the city where Rumi
lived], we wouldn’t even know who Rumi is, he would just be some jurist.
Travel (safar) and wandering are so important.” Amir Hossein added play-
fully, “We pay our respects to the Sufi masters (pir-ha) of old! And we learn
about wandering.”
Through their utilization of the “classical” Sufi concepts of sama and
wandering (suluk, sargardan), the youth here, like countless others before
them, are participating in an engagement with and summoning forward of
their own history. In drawing from their canon so unambiguously, they are
demonstrating a clear desire to position themselves as operating within
Sufi discourses. They are calling upon well-established conceptual matri-
ces to operate as both guides and anchors, and thereby confirming their
desire to cement and affirm their ties to the Sufi tradition. As has been
done innumerable times for millennia prior, an established idea served as
inspiration for further creation.
The literalness with which they approach the ideas, especially wander-
ing, is particularly noteworthy. The idea of wandering is central to Ni-
matullahi Sufism but physical wandering within the orders has not been a
primary concern for over a hundred years, if not longer. Indeed, we return
again to that seminal 1939 text, Pand-e Saleh (Saleh’s Advice), where idle-
ness and begging,5 the sometimes accompaniments to wandering, w ere
172 Chapter five

discouraged. In the text, Shaykh Saleh Alishah describes the accusations
leveled against them by Sufism’s detractors: “They try to present dervishes
to certain p eople as a form of idleness and shamelessness; as being a bur-
den to society; as not being bound to the customs [adab] of religion and
the laws; as not observing the manners of religiosity; and as opposing
civilization. They do this so as to humiliate dervishes before all groups, so
that some seekers [taleban] might consider their words true and believe in
them and thus be led astray from the Truth.”6
Although the practice had already been in decline for some time at the
time of its publication in 1939, Saleh’s Advice cements the transition of Ni-
matullahi Sufism from a close-knit circle of men devoting their entire lives
to spiritual development (tawhid) to a form of religious practice compat-
ible with the lives of “respectable” p eople. Thus, the era of the itinerant
holy man was already coming to a close, leaving only the rare individual,
deemed alternately eccentric or devout, to pursue the life of rootlessness.
I should also note, however, that physical wandering was never explicitly
banned or condemned in and of itself, and so to take it up is not necessarily
a refutation of modern Sufi practice.
Given that t hese peripatetic practices have long fallen out of living
memory, then, what drew these young mystics to carry out such mean-
derings? Was it some sort of revivalist impulse? A means of recreating an
older, potentially more romantic form of Sufism, where being a darvish
often structured one’s entire life, rather than the Sufism of today where
it is incorporated into a life that is otherw ise completely unremarkable
from most other Iranians’? Rather than paying homage to their illustri-
ous ancestors or the Sufism of generations past, however, their immediate
answer was perhaps a bit less lofty: they thought it would be fun, but also
a means to connect to the project of Sufism as a whole. While the proj
ect was absolutely conceived with mystical ideals and practices in mind,
and hence situates itself firmly within the discursive practices of the order,
there was never once a mention of extending the activity beyond the group
themselves—that is, bringing it to the larger Sufi community in their city
or elsewhere. When conceiving of the wandering/listening project, the
group wanted to do something fun or cool, bahal as they recounted to
me, rather than envisioning some grand scheme for the future of Sufism
in Iran.
“Do you think of it as a kind of game (bazi)?” I asked my interlocutors.
“No, not from the outset, we w eren’t thinking of it like that, but I guess it’s
kind of a game or puzzle,” Shervin replied.

Nazanin countered: “Well, no, I d on’t think so. Our wandering i sn’t
really a game in the sense that’s it just for fun, or has no real consequences.
It’s like a game in that t here is something to solve or find, and it’s interest
ing, but ideally it’s like a type of practice.”
“Is it really so serious as that?” Fatima queried.
“Why not?” replied Nazanin.
“Yeah, I don’t think it’s a game, we thought it was a Sufi way of meeting.
It’s not always the easiest way, but it’s the most engaged, and allows you to
connect to your surroundings,” offered Babak.
“It’s certainly the only time I wander or listen carefully during the day.”
“Well, that’s because you have a job, I wander around all the time! Bikar-
am dige, I don’t have anything to do!”
“Is it the same type of wandering though as our wandering?”
“Well . . . well sometimes, sometimes yes, sometimes no. Depends on
my day, my mood.”
I interject h ere: “What do you mean by a different type of wandering?”
Fatima explained: “One type is just aimless [bi-eradeh] wandering, that’s
not the kind we’re interested in, the other is searching for something but
you don’t know what that something is yet. That’s our type of wandering.”
“So for meetings it’s not the ideal type of wandering, but it’s still some-
thing more similar than to aimless wandering.”
“See, it’s not a type of game then, is it,” said Nazanin.
“No, no, I guess it’s not. All right, you were right!” Shervin conceded
with laugh.
Game or not, there was a lightness to our conversations, a sense of play
and fun. As they discussed my questions out loud together, there was a
convivial air among the friends, and a youthful enthusiasm that marked
our conversations about their unique hermeneutic stance. “Fun” and
“Islamic hermeneutics” are not two terms that are often associated with
each other, but the playful—yet still thoughtful, still informed—attitude
of my interlocutors made “fun with hermeneutics” a very real thing. Nur
Amali Ibrahim, in his study of Islamic Indonesian university groups, simi-
larly found that student collectives provided “playful spaces that permit
the emergence of unusual and nontraditional forms of piety.”7 It is worth
noting that both with the case study presented h ere and with Ibrahim’s
interlocutors, there was no authority figure present, no teacher or guide,
therein freeing the youths from the pressure to ascertain the “right” or
“best” interpretation. Instead, they were free to debate and experiment as
peers and equals. This is not to say that such creativity does not happen in
174 Chapter five

more formal classroom settings, as Odabaei’s and Tawasil’s ethnographic
work in Iranian seminaries has shown,8 but simply that there is a particul ar
dynamic that characterizes young p eople coming together discussing ideas
without an authority figure present. It is in this way that the Sufi sound-
scape first came together vis-à-vis mystical epistemologies, with a sense of
exploration and lightness, with one eye toward the gravitas of the past and
another toward what was “cool” in the present.
The Literal as Experimental
As evidenced by my interlocutors’ comments, t here are many types of

wandering: aimless, intentional, existential. One characteristic these itera-
tions all share, however, is that they are composed of acts of physical move-
ment. And while this may seem to be an obvious statement, it is significant
within the world of Islamic mysticism. As mentioned e arlier, wandering
within Sufi thought—while a central question for many thinkers—often
remains in the realm of metaphor or within that nebulous space between
the literal and the metaphoric.9 For this group of young Sufis, however,
wandering is understood in the literal sense, operating as a decisive activity
that must be actualized by the movement of one’s body, offering a form of
knowledge and experience that would not have been obtained otherwise.
I should clarify what I mean by “literal” interpretation, as literalism
within Islam is a category that is often deeply misunderstood outside of
theological circles. Typically, it is considered in terms of Islamic legal theory
(usul al-fiqh), where the meaning of the text is said to be apparent or mani-
fest (zahir) within the printed or recited words and the rules of grammar
that apply to them. This form of exegetical practice is often contrasted with
those schools of jurisprudence that emphasize rational argumentation (aql)
or a concealed internal meaning (batin), seemingly positing literalism as the
uncritical alternative to the deep thinkers of nonliteralist schools of thought.
This understanding of external or literal meaning (zahir), however, is a mis-
construction. To begin, it grossly simplifies the disparate and highly sophis-
ticated hermeneutics of those who analyze the “exterior” meaning of the
text. Following a literalist interpretation does not mean that one does not
carry out any analysis of the text; rather that one’s form of analysis is derived
from a specific hermeneutics and epistemology, one that typically privileges
language over context, linguistics over reference-based argumentation, haq-
iqa (literal trope) over majaz (figurative, nonliteral). As M ahmood notes,

within so-called literalist Qur’anic hermeneutics, it is not that meanings are
laid bare, but that a “certain form of literacy” is developed.10
In his excellent lslam and Literalism, Robert Gleave offers a slightly
different take on the term. While he acknowledges that “literalist” is an
imperfect analogue to interpretations that f avor zahir (apparent, external)
“meanings,” he defends its use by noting that he uses it as an “analytical
tool which . . . does capture one of the elements of the tradition nicely. . . .
Since literal meaning . . . [is a] common phrase, used in everyday parlance
as well as secondary literature, the idea of literality can act as a starting
point through which a book in the English language can discuss a world
expressed almost exclusively through the medium of technical Arabic,”11
and I would agree with this assessment. Despite its potential limitations,
the use of the designator “literalist,” even as an imperfect approximate for
zahir or haqiqa, allows us the opportunity to think more closely about
what “apparent” definitions r eally mean, a moment to highlight the nuance
and care that goes into such thoughtful interpretations, and how a literalist
or apparent interpretation might differ from one that is centered around
the idea of the metaphorical or “hidden.”
When analyzing this case study, however, what I am referring to as
their “literal interpretation” is distinct in that it is not related to exegesis
or any form of textual analysis at all. Rather, it is their interpretation of
a concept—in this case sargardan or sama—that favors materialism and
sensoriality over metaphor and indexicality. Th ese young p eople approach
wandering (sargardan) at the level of allegory as well as a material practice
that highlights the potential for transformation of the self through an en-
gagement with the profane Real. Just as literal interpretations of the text
offer an opportunity for further analysis, so too does literal interpretation
of wandering offer an opportunity for the Sufi hermeneutic imagination to
exert itself onto the streets of the city.
When they walk through the neighborhoods, straining to hear the sounds
from the meeting place, the Sufis are engaging in a form of devotional ac-
tivity, turning an idea that they had first encountered as metaphor into
actuality. Through their wandering and listening, the streets are transfigured
into a place with the potential for sacral interaction, if only for the Sufis them-
selves, if only momentarily. Moreover, in emphasizing the material over the
abstract in their devotion—or, perhaps more accurately, the material along-
side the abstract—it appears that they are privileging experiences of imma-
nence. The material world here operates as a realm to search for, and hence
interact with, the divine, therein bringing two disparate ontological planes in
176 Chapter five

sight of one another. This is not a simple empiricism at play here, but when
fused with their conceptual framework becomes the radical materialism of
immanence. As Deleuze has written: “Empiricism is by no means a reaction
against concepts. . . . On the contrary, it undertakes the most insane creation
of concepts ever.”12 Just as many anthropologists have noted the transfigura-
tive potential of engagements with m atter and material,13 so too can a literal-
ist understanding of Islam possess a similar capacity for inventive play.
Literalism is too often seen as synonymous with the absence of critical
thought, a black hole of interpretation where the word offers not inspira-
tion but command, often of a proscriptive variety. Here we see a literal
interpretation of a classic Sufi concept (favored over an allegorical one)
brought forth as a creative and theologically sound solution to create a
space of their own. Indeed, through these experimentations with the literal
and fun with hermeneutics, these young people are challenging the idea of
the boundedness of space, affirming the potential of materiality as a mal-
leable entity, one which they can assemble and disassemble at w ill.
Intentional Wanderings
I went to the master’s street and said “Where is the master?”

They said, “The master is a lover and is drunk and wandering
from street to street. ”
rumi, in arberry, mystical poems of rumi (2010)
It is not one truth or another that lacks, or truth in general; nor is it doubt
that leads us or despair that immobilizes us. The wanderer’s country is not
truth, but exile; he lives outside, on the other side which is by no means
a beyond, rather the contrary. He remains separated, where the deep of
dissimulation reigns, that elemental obscurity through which no way can
be made and which because of that makes its awful way through him.
maurice blanchot, the writing of the disaster (1982)
In the introduction of this book, I cited a quote from the Nimatullahi

Soltanalishahi quob Nur‘Ali Tabandeh: “gnosis (erfan) . . . is a process
[that] continues endlessly.”14 It is an important reminder that within the
project of Nimatullahi mysticism, the path and the object are the same;
the journey and objective of Sufism are seen as intrinsically and insepa-
rably linked together. Indeed, as Sufi knowledge is characterized by a lack

of finality of thought, so too is the journey to achieve this thought never-
ending, fully achieved only by saints. If Sufism is defined as the obtainment
of mystical knowledge, and such knowledge is defined as ever expansive and
definitively fully unobtainable except for saint figures, then Sufism itself is
constituted as an endless process.
For this reason, the metaphors of journeying, pathways, and wander-
ing are ubiquitous in Sufi philosophy, for the Nimatullahi but also more
broadly. Perhaps the most obvious example of this is that the word for
“order,” as in “Sufi order,” in Persian is tariqa, whose meaning is “path.” The
literal translation of what gets called a “Sufi order” is thus “Sufi path.” That
the name that they have given to their own organizational body is that of
“path” is not insignificant. To join this assembly of p eople it is thus implied
that one is not simply joining a designated group but is embarking upon a
designated route, one which acts as, if not a destination, a means to some
form of directionality. In this way, they are emphasizing motion over col-
lectivities, an avenue over assembly.
Moreover, one of the many monikers the Sufis use to describe them-
selves is “wayfarers” or “wanderers of the path.” Thus, not only is the name
of the organizational body of the Sufis indicative of the importance of the
concept of movement, but the people themselves are referred to as travel-
ers and journeymen, t hose whose lives are structured around transience.
When you become a Sufi you become a wanderer, and epistemological
itinerancy becomes your life principle.
The word most commonly used for wandering is sargardan, which lit-
erally translates as “the turning of the head.” In other words, wandering
is “the turning of the head.” To move in such a fashion indicates not merely
a forward motion, but a disoriented one, potentially even provoking a cir-
cular or spiral motion. I think it is safe to assume too that the potential side
effect of dizziness or light-headedness that such head-turning might pro-
duce is not entirely unintentional, as (the proper forms of) intoxication
and even disorientation are valued experiences within Sufism (indicative
as they are of the experience of states [hal] one achieves when concen-
trating on or upon contact with the mysteries of the divine). By invok-
ing the word sargardan (rather than other names for wandering, i.e., siyar,
etc.), the head—and, in turn, thought—is being involved in this process as
well. Thus, it is significant to note too that t hese wanderings demand not
only endless movement, an unthinking and infinite unfolding, but a more
specific type of journey, one tied to the development and experience of a
certain form of knowledge.
178 Chapter five

Unsurprisingly then, yet another moniker for Sufism per my interlocutors
is “the path of substantial evolution.” Not only is the path itself an endless
“journey,” but it involves the process of change of the individual upon the
path. A substantial evolution of the self, a becoming through wandering.
Subjectivity, just as the form of knowledge with which it engages, is also
something that mutates, evolves, remains ever transient, in a state of con-
stant emergence, or at least ideally so.
To return to the words of the Nimatullahi sheikh Seyed Mustafa
Azmayesh, who has also written much about journeying and comments
specifically on the self-contained nature of the mystical path: “The start-
ing point and the goal, the subject and object are fixed. To put it in other
words, I travel from me to Me, in me and by me. I am the point of depar-
ture; I am the goal, the journey and the traveler.” In a separate piece, he also
writes, “Sufism or mysticism in general is a form of travel: a travel from the
alienated self to the alternate, real self.”15
I would return here too to comments made by my interlocutors men-
tioned earlier in the article that also shed light on the epistemological in-
tricacies of Sufi wandering. As Fatima stated, the Sufis are not interested
in “just aimless [bi-eradeh] wandering, that’s not the kind we’re interested
in, the other is searching for something but you don’t know what that
something is yet. That’s our type of wandering.”
A clear distinction is being made h ere. For Fatima, t hese movements
are decidedly not aimless, as the concept of wandering might suggest, but
intentional; they are intentional wanderings. Nazanin supports Fatima’s
assertion when she pushes back against Babak’s claim that he wanders
around all the time b ecause he is unemployed; as Nazanin asks him: “Is it
the same type of wandering though as our wandering?” Babak concurs that
it is not.
Intentional wandering is a more focused, more directed form of search-
ing, even as the paths to u nion with God (tawhid) remain endless. Azmayesh
further affirms this point in his description of the path to reach mystical
gnosis (erfan) as one which contains infinite possibility: “Sufism . . . cannot
be compared to a straight road leading from ‘A’ to ‘B.’ As described before,
it is an individual path. Moreover, the sheikh will, instead of presenting him
an answer or a solution, confront the student with the jungle of life and
place him in the midst of a multitude of possibilities in order to find his own
way.”16 Here, then, the sheikh does not give the disciple a linear trajectory,
but offers instead a labyrinth of possibilities, providing more convolution
rather than clarity, so that the individual must formulate his own course.

In embracing the seemingly paradoxical concept of intentional wan-
derings, t hese young Sufis are adopting a hermeneutical stance that f avors
the labyrinthine over the straightforward. As a result, the space they have
constructed similarly privileges diffusion over cohesion, movement rather
than stasis, and is never fully known or predictable. In doing so, they have
demonstrated their commitment to Sufi ideals over efficacy and familiarity.
Open Sounds: Sama and Transformation
Urban residential neighborhoods in Iran, with the notable exception of

Tehran, are quiet. In a surprise to many unfamiliar with Iranian cities, even
working-class neighborhoods in Iran have a relatively low noise level. In
the poorer northern neighborhoods of Isfahan, like Zeinabieh for exam-
ple, with their higher density of residents and small brick adobe h ouses
of a few rooms, the majority of the streets and winding alleyways are not
particularly noisy at all. This is due in large part to the fact that shops and
other commercial activities are separated from residential areas, with the
occasional small store embedded between h ouses and apartment build-
ings. I would equate the sound level of residential neighborhoods in Ira
nian cities to that of American suburbs. Incidental noises—a car starting,
passersby chatting, children playing in the alleyways (kucheh-ha)—can be
heard, but generally things are quiet. The Sufis’ listened-for soundscape is
thus made possible by the relative auditory calm of their neighborhoods,
as the middle-class enclaves described in this case study are indeed no ex-
ception in terms of noise level.
The appropriate forms of housing were also necessary in order for the
broadcasting of music to occur. Such an endeavor would not be possible
if they lived on the outskirts of the city in the massive housing complexes
where many educated and upwardly mobile young professionals live,
where there are no real streets to wander as such, but simply very large
apartment buildings rising up out of the ground, with very little develop-
ment around them. Most of these new tower (borj) apartments do not
have the traditional courtyard or enclosed front yard of many middle-
class apartment buildings in Iranian cities, but have lobbies that lead out
directly into the street. The majority of working-class homes also do not
possess a front courtyard (although some share an inner courtyard with
their next-door neighbors), and so while they would have an easier time
broadcasting music than those in housing complexes, this Sufi soundscape
180 Chapter five

may have taken a different shape if it took place in primarily working-class
neighborhoods.
I highlight t hese conditions as we turn our attention now to listening
and listening practices, so we might better understand the ways that the
music was able to travel. This listened-for soundscape would only be pos
sible under these appropriate auditory and spatial configurations that exist
in the participants’ residential areas.
Of course, this is not the only influencing factor. The Sufis’ utilization of
audition emerges from a long tradition of listening within Islamic practice
more broadly, a topic that has drawn the attention of scholars for quite some
time.17 One need only look to the pedagogical techniques,18 sermons and
circulation, Qur’anic recitation practices, or even the original revelation
and transmission of the Qur’an for a few examples of the centrality of audi-
tion throughout Islamic history and philosophy. Of course, in the Sufi tradi-
tion, this has often been discussed in the context of the zekr ceremony or
other ceremonial contexts.19 In this sense, the Iranian Sufis are again draw-
ing from well-established customs developed before their time. For this
analysis, however, I will be tracing the ways that mystical epistemologies are
being utilized to form an alternative, if ever tenuous, Islamic space within
Iran, with a particular focus on sama, intentional listening. How can listen-
ing be used as a catalyst for transformation? What are the physical attributes
of sound that allow for the formulation of an ephemeral and inchoate space,
one that allows for a space/place that can appear and disappear, creating a
momentarily cohesive Sufi space but one that can also quickly disassemble?
I investigate this material dimension not only to understand the ways in
which the soundscape is shaped by the local environment, proscribed by
the specific lines and shapes of the neighborhood, but to highlight the ways
in which the auditory lends itself to particular forms of transience, making
it difficult to fully map, trace, or know the space.
Before this, a note about the m usic that was utilized. To put it in plain
terms, the Sufis were not particularly invested in the music or poetry reci-
tation that was broadcast. As my interlocutors told me, “No, no one really
discusses what to play beforehand; it’s basically traditional [sonati] music
or poetry.”20 Sara confirmed this idea: “Yeah, we don’t pay much attention
to what song or CD is being played specifically, we just listen for its sound
and figure out where it’s coming from.” Bita continued, “I mean, w e’re not
going to play some pop music, just something appropriate [monaseb].”
“What counts as appropriate?” I pressed. “Something that sets the mood
for reading the Masnavi [Rumi], just something traditional or erfani.21 It

would be pretty ridiculous if we were playing [dance pop star] Arash and
then we wanted to read poetry.” The seductive beats of the international
dance scene excluded, the stylistic indices of the music, then, are not of
major concern h ere. By referring to that which is monaseb, or appropri-
ate for the occasion, as any form of “traditional” music, this includes a
huge range of possibilities. Beyond the casual approach to m usic or po-
etry selection too, the devices utilized—primarily boom boxes or iPod
speakers—are not particularly difficult to come by. The sound is trans-
formed from a typical audio cd of music or poetry recitation into a marker
of a soundscape through the audition of the Sufis themselves. Although
it is certainly through the help of media technologies that this particular
group is able to organize themselves, to focus on such in this particul ar in-
stance would be to disregard the major concerns of the project as a whole.
Space, Audition, Islam
ere have been numerous works that explore sound and hearing within
Th
Islamic communities, spaces, and places, and this project shares resonances
with many of them, particularly those works that analyze instances where
the listener is transformed by sound, and the sound is transformed by the
listener. In this way, this project is in line with Charles Hirschkind’s master-
ful exploration of the mediation and impact of cassette sermons in Cairo.22
Not only is their potential for development of the self through the act of
audition but, just as the Sufis followed listened-for sounds, so too are these
sermons indeed highly sought a fter by those who listened to and for them.
The differences arise in that the soundscape of the Sufis is not an exam-
ple of a Hirschkindian counterpublic. As he describes it, a counterpublic is
a “discursive arena” that is both embedded within and also a result of the
larger material, religious, and political landscapes of contemporary Egypt.
These are not self-organized endeavors, but phenomena that emerge and
disappear out of the noises of the everyday, only coming into being when
“the disciplining power of ethical speech” of the cassette sermon encoun-
ters an ethical listener.
Conversely, the Sufis are broadcasting the sounds themselves for
their own listening/recognition. This is sound as willed occurrence, self-
generated and unrecognizable to all but the select few who seek it out. In-
deed, one of the key distinctive features of this Sufi space is its position
as a listened-for soundscape, one that is formulated through a sort of aural
182 Chapter five

search party by its inhabitants. Th ese are desired sounds that are sought
out by their listeners. This type of soundscape is decidedly distinct from
those constituted by ambient street noise, a background hum that is felt
through the more passive hearing, where one can both tune in and tune
out or, in the case of denizens of extremely loud, Muslim-majority me-
tropolises, a deafening cacophony that one learns how to audibly manage,
or be overwhelmed by it in the process. Indeed, these sorts of ambient
soundscapes tend to produce various forms of audition, as Brian Larkin
has astutely pointed out in his discussion of the development of “inat-
tention” in Nigeria,23 where p eople move in and out of listening/hearing
mode as they traverse the city streets, and it is in such cases that the use of
media technology allows for such a soundscape to exist at all. Moreover,
it is important to remember that the auditory spaces invoked within this
Sufi community here differ from most standard definitions of “an acoustic
environment,”24 due to the fact that the musical sounds conjured in the
homes are decidedly intentional as opposed to incidental.
What of the azan, the Islamic call to prayer? Could these sounds be seen
as a formulation of a kind of azan soundscape? The voice of the mu’azzen,
he who recites the call to prayer, also provides a summoning and signaling
to a site, and in this way the azan is certainly a listened-for sound. But the
azan is as predictable and expected as the day is long, it is something that
not only marks the moment for prayer but the very passing of the day itself.
A sound remarkable for its inevitability, one listens for the azan as one
waits for the end of the workday.25 The rhythms of the broadcast of azan
are thus structured very differently than those of the Sufi-sounds, deeply
interwoven into that of the quotidian experience. And it is a noise whose
signification is recognizable by all, even by strangers in the city. When it is
not there, it is a sign of serious disruption. When the Sufi sounds are not
there, only a select few will notice.
Expansive Potential of the Sound-Space
“When you are focusing on trying to find the meeting place, you know the
source of the m usic, you experience the neighborhood in a different way,”
said Bita. I asked my interlocutors to describe the experience of wander-
ing around, listening for the sounds and trying to locate the source. Some,
like Bita, noticed that they viewed the alleyways and streets in a different
light. I am also reminded of Babak’s earlier statement: “It’s not always the

easiest way, but it’s the most engaged, and allows you to connect to your
surroundings.”
Others, like Nickoo, said they remained hyperaware of the sound,
and tended to ignore the surroundings. “I’m concentrating so much on
the sound, it’s kind of like the neighborhood is irrelevant.” Fatima chimed
in, “Yes, it’s like I’m not even seeing it [the place]. It’s like when listen-
ing becomes the primary sense, it d oesn’t even m atter what you see.”
Clearly, h ere it is the ear that leads, and the eye follows. In both sets of
experiences—becoming hyperaware of their surroundings or becoming
irrelevant of their surroundings—it is clear that a transformation of the
experience of the space occurs. When you experience a place primarily
through listening, there are certain challenges and opportunities that pre
sent themselves. Gone are the fixed boundaries of the visual landscapes,
replaced with a mutable and, in this case, temporary entity.
Theories of auditory space abound, both inside and outside the Islamic
tradition. In 1973, Marshall McLuhan, who, along with Edward Carpenter,
was one of the first to write about acoustic space, observed that “auditory
space has no point of favored focus. It’s a sphere without fixed bound
aries, space made by the t hing itself, not space containing the t hing.”26 To
begin to understand the experience of an auditory space, one must also
consider the material nature of sound itself, or sound as a tangible, corpo-
real phenomenon, one that is substantial enough and significant enough
to encompass and relegate an entire spatial horizon. Sound remains in flux
and in motion, an invisible entity composed of a series of vibrations that
remain uncontained and unlocatable but still perceptible.
Indeed, the tenuous nature of sound is reaffirmed by its tendency to
remain in flux—and thereby constantly in progress and ultimately unde-
fined—at all times. In considering this curious aspect of sound, then, the
question might be posed as to how this might affect the perception of sound.
David Toop proposes the following, framing his argument here in terms of
perception, rather than sound itself: “For one t hing, each kind of percep-
tion bears a fundamentally different relationship to motion and stasis, since
sound, contrary to sight, presupposes movement from the outset . . . sound
by its very nature necessarily implies a displacement or agitation, however
minimal.”27 In other words, because sound as a phenomenon exists in such
an ephemeral, transitional state, it may be argued that its existence relies
more on perception than a static object that may be viewed visually.28 Thus,
emerging from the mutable constitution of sound is the particular impor-
tance of perception within the establishment of the soundscape.
184 Chapter five

In considering the idea of the hearing act as a mode of inquisition into
the realm of the vanishing, how might this then apply to this Sufi commu-
nity of Isfahan? At the most fundamental level, it is important to remember
that the vast majority of the musical performances occur in the evening. In
this sense, the auditory declarations of the audible landscape of Isfahan
might only be heard during the evening hours, such that were one to lis-
ten for them during the day they would be greeted only with the everyday
sounds of the residential neighborhoods. Thus to hear this soundscape is
to capture a temporary entity, one made available only for approximately
thirty minutes, leaving the listener doubting w hether they might have
heard anything at all. It becomes an unknown space even for t hose who
have created it.
Consequently, it may be said that, although through its very activa-
tion the sonic is able to overtake or arguably even create its own space,
these auditory vibrations are similarly shaped and affected by the physical
boundaries that they confront. The volume, too, is of tantamount impor-
tance: loud enough to be heard by passersby, but not loud enough to draw
unwanted attention, set at just that level to be audible for those who might
be listening for it.
And so sound emerges here as the shape-shifter, forever altering its
form, oftentimes mimicking the spaces around it, those spaces of con-
tainment, but ultimately remaining formless. It would appear, then, that
perhaps auditory space is not necessarily invisible, yet rather inherently
unrecognizable. A camouflaged architectonics, at once enigmatic and
encoded, it strays beyond the totality of comprehension, drawn instead
toward the peripheries of the unnamable. In other words, the soundscape
is always in disguise. It is in this way too that the paradox of concealment
and revealing of the Sufis’ strategy occurs: they are hiding in plain sight.
They broadcast their presence in the most literal of terms, announcing
their presence to and drawing the attention of anyone who might be in the
neighborhood. And yet the sounds are only decipherable to t hose who
understand their significance, remaining hidden in their innocuous form
of an audio recording. If it w ere live m
usic, however, surely, they would
draw more attention.
But what might it be like to inhabit such a space? One that seems dif-
ficult to recognize, and yet so easily apprehended? Counterintuitively, I
would argue that to come upon such an encounter would ultimately result
in a feeling of maximal proximity; for when something is placed into ques-
tion, no choice remains but that of engagement, thereby cementing a fierce

reciprocity with the sensorial object, an acute nearness that collapses the
inner and the outer, as Julian Henriques articulates: “Acoustic space . . . is a
kind of space you are inside as well as outside and it is inside of you as well
as you being inside it. In fact with sound it simply does not make sense to
think of having an inside and an outside in the way that the visual sensory
modality, with its preoccupations with surfaces, restricts us.”29 And so, au-
ditory space continues the phenomenological tendencies of the sensorial
event and the listening act that ultimately gives rise to it.
Finally, one last outcome of the auditory space as a desired space is the
privatization and personalization of an instance, the broadcasting of m usic
into a neighborhood street, of what is otherwise the public realm. Indeed,
upon experiencing the music at hand, a sense of intimacy is created be-
tween the recording and the listener, between the individual listener and
herself, in this last instance as a result of the introspection/cognition in-
volved in the listening act. In addition, remembering the small size of the
group—oftentimes amounting to fewer than a dozen individuals—this
was already rendered an unintentionally private space at the outset. Thus,
it is this small gathering that is able to transform an already confidential
space into one of heightened immediacy. In a way, one is reminded of a
quote by Kafka, wherein he writes: “Like a game of tag where the only
‘home’ is a tree on the far side of the ocean. But why did they set forth
from that place?—It is on the coast that the billows crash most fiercely.
So narrow a room do they have there, and so unconquerable.”30 In t hese
contested sites, the soundscape gives rise to a space of the utmost vitalism,
caught between an exchange of subject and object, remaining impenetra-
ble and unknowing to all but those inhabit it.
Ultimately, the proposition of a silent/secret yet audible landscape begs
a paradox: that, in the final scope, this underground aspect of the Sufi com-
munity enhances spatial experience rather than reduces it. Inasmuch as it
circumscribes a masked arena, it also produces itself as an expanse, one
that remains seamless and volatile, indefinite and unbound. Such is the
potential contained with an unknowing of place.
In the Islamic Republic of Iran, Islam is being constantly debated, config-

ured, and altered in a seemingly endless number of ways. Although the
state maintains clear control of the organization and the image of their
own particular narrative, to say that alternative Islamic discourses do not
exist is a gross generalization as demonstrated by the young people dis-
cussed in this chapter. Moreover, it is to religious ideals and philosophies
186 Chapter five

figure 5.1 Underground shrine, unnamed for anonymity.
that these Sufis have turned to navigate a moment of interference, inserting

seemingly socially irrelevant mystical practices and ideas into the sociopo
litical arena.
It is in this way that Sufi space has come into being when mystical ideas
met local politics. In some sense, it resembles the formation of a shadow.
Just as a shadow is formed when light touches a material object, a reflec-
tion and outcome of the relationship and positionality between two dis-
tinct phenomena, so too does this particular Sufi space come into being
when the mystical imagination confronts the sociopolitical arena of an Ira
nian city. As shadow (space), it thus contains the possibility to disappear
and reappear at the pleasure of the points of interaction, shifting shape and
direction in accordance with the angle and potency of the light.
In doing so, this creative navigation of local politics has escaped the
binaries of both resistance-acquiescence as well as the transcendent-
material. Regarding the former, to say this is a form of resistance would
be a misreading of the Sufis’ intentions when establishing their unique
method of convening; namely, to do something that is fun or cool (bahal)
and something in the path of Sufism or Sufis (darvishi, dar tariqa faqiha).
While it is certainly a response to an outside authority, and hence entangled
in the dynamics of local politics, the nature of their reply is perhaps better
categorized as a mode of navigation than the direct and targeted intentions

that a resistance might imply. Acquiescence does not fit either, as such a
stance would require a cessation of the meetings entirely.
And then t here is lightness, and then t here is play. In a highly creative
endeavor, the Sufis have constructed a space that, if one were to plot it,
would consist of a map of different spots throughout the city, each spot
being marked by a series of meandering lines, coming together to re-
semble something close to a blur. Another analysis could have taken this
entire endeavor to be a sort of art piece or performance, one played out
on the streets of Isfahan. Which begs a question: What does this map of
blurry spots mean for the larger socioreligious sphere within Iran? For
those outside the confines of this small group, does the group’s inventive-
ness possess any consequence or impact? On a practical level, I think it
is safe to say probably very l ittle, as p eople go about their daily lives, un-
aware of these goings-on. And yet still . . . the sound is there, asserting it-
self onto the streets—unassuming as it is, its true purpose masked to all
save those searching for it—demonstrating the potential for a transformed
city soundscape, even if all that is heard is a modest echo. As Rumi writes:
“We all were parts of Adam at one time/In paradise we all have heard these
songs/Though clay and w ater fill us up with doubts/We still remember
something of those songs.”31
188 Chapter five

Postscript (Reng)
Improvisation and Unknowing
Improvisation: a necessary experimentation with context . . .

an awareness of playing the potential and possibility of any
moment with the tools at hand.
daniel fischlin and eric porter, “improvisation and
global sites of difference” (2016)
. . . We have found the traceless and thrown away all traces . . .
rumi
As mentioned e arlier, the m usic that this small group of Sufis broad-
cast was by and large “traditional” (sonati) or “classical” (assil) Ira
nian m usic, m
usic that often falls u nder the category of improvised
music. The performances could be rollicking and fast-paced, all per-
cussive frame drums and frenzied stringed santours, or as delicate
and gentle-natured as a beguiling flute (ney) solo, but all contained
at least some element of performance that was not largely predeter-
mined beforehand.
What is improvised m usic? Often contrasted with composition,
improvised music is notoriously difficult to define.1 While often syn-
onymous with spontaneity or extemporaneity, in the Iranian context
at least it would be inaccurate to understand improvisation as a form
of performance where the notes and rhythms, melodies and harmo-
nies, are created completely ex nihilo. Musicologist Laudan Nooshin
has explored this point more thoroughly and masterfully than anyone,
noting how the term “improvised” (bedaheh navazi) often fails to capture
not only the years and years of training that musicians undergo before be-
coming proficient and skilled enough to improvise but also the complex
musical schematics involved.2 With this system in mind, we may better
understand how even music that is not reliant upon a predetermined score
still has an origin point, as Nooshin explains:
This essentialization of improvisation—treating it as one particular kind
of music which is somehow distinct from composition—is problematic
for a number of reasons. For one t hing, many of its defining elements are
not absolute, but relative. For example, much debate has surrounded one
of the central defining concepts of improvisation—spontaneity—and in
particular the exact meaning of the term, the extent to which particular
performances are truly spontaneous, whether spontaneity can be judged
from the sound alone, and so on. . . . Moreover, any “spontaneity” is clearly
mediated and shaped through musical and cultural norms, as well as through
musicians idiosyncrasies, the physical limitations and possibilities of instru-
ments or voice, interaction with other musicians and the audience, and so forth
(emphasis mine).3
In other words, even that which must be created seemingly out of the ether,
immediately and in coordination with other musicians (who also do not
have a score in front of them), comes into existence formulated by sets of
ideas and formulae. This is not to undercut the creativity of the musicians,
far from it: I can think of no more difficult task than to create an artwork in
real-time, to continually produce and progress onward in the way you deem
the most vital without knowing what the very near f uture holds, to know
when to provoke your fellow musicians and when to follow and respond, all
in the presence of an audience following your every move.
And so, when considering improvisation, I would offer that we approach
it as operating within these multiple registers, arising out of something but
never wholly predetermined, or if we might turn to Laudan Nooshin once
more, “the idea of improvisation as something grounded—as freedom un-
derpinned by knowledge of [the musical system] radif.”4 When creating in
real time, you move in directions that have not been previously decided
upon, paths that have never been trod before (and may never be again),
reacting to external forces and cues based on the training you have received
and nothing more.
190 Postscript
And as we contemplate this improvised music, I would offer the idea of
considering improvisation outside of a musical context, to consider what
is involved when one must act immediately, to react to one’s surroundings
without a full understanding of what might result and how things might go.
Improvisation is based on a mastery of technique and an immense amount
of training and the ability to trust your own instincts, moving forward in
real time without having the luxury of thinking things over.
These Sufis of Iran navigate the broader world, these external forces and
cues that they encounter, in a similar fashion. They pull not from musical
radifs but from mystical epistemologies, these systems of thought that are
debated, reflected upon, and contemplated so fully so that, one day, they
can progress to other modes of thinking, an instinctual, immediate think-
ing, like the performers of improvised m usic who can produce art in a way
that is distinct from other forms. These are mystics who embrace a form of
ma‘rifat that emphasizes the unknown and inchoate, that knowledge that
foregrounds the incomprehensibility of the divine and the limit of human
thought. As the improvisers create/perform differently than those operat-
ing from a score, so too do t hese Sufis utilize a distinct form of knowl-
edge that, through its need to question, conceives of thought as a question
without answer that moves ever forward, a formless, generative endeavor,
moving forward as the improvisers do. As Rumi has said: “Form comes out
from Formlessness: Then it returns, for unto Him we are returning.”5 As
unknowing dissembles that with which it comes into contact (to unknow
something is exactly that, to put the object of one’s analysis to question), it
lays out no clear path, leaving you no choice but to improvise.
And what of the external factors and elements to which one must re-
spond? Improvisation requires not only a form of moving forward without
any clear path in front of you, but also the ability to respond to external
stimuli and obstacles in ways they find most vital. For t hese Sufis, t hese
forces include the shapes of alleyways, the municipal government, dis-
courses of identity politics, ideas of textual authority, an understanding
of one’s own body, and more: t hese are just some of the external cues that
shape the Sufis’ utilization of their epistemologies. The ways they navigate
life in contemporary Iran are thus s haped by their epistemologies of disas-
semblages as well as these forces they encounter.
And so there is movement forward. Through busy thoroughfares and
quiet residential streets, via rapid metros and the viselike grip of stand-
still traffic, during hectic mornings and the slow torpor of the postsiesta
Postscript 191
afternoon, t here is movement. For when all human thought is put to ques-
tion in an affirmation of the supremacy of God, when all knowledge must
be contested, and yet what results is not paralysis but activation . . . there
is movement. As one works one’s way through the world, improvising and
armed with unknowing, a long and sightless walk awaits, pathways formed
and unformed, heard and unheard, seen and unseen. . . .
192 Postscript
notes
Introduction
1. Azmayesh, Morvarid-e Sufi-gari, 71.

2. Majzub‘alishah, “Sufigari, Shi‘igari, Erfan,” 15.
3. This translation, with a few modifications of mine, is based on that of Nasrollah
Pourjavady. Ghazzali, Sawanih, 26–27.
4. A further note on translation: I have translated ma‘rifat as “non-knowledge”
and “unknowing” rather than “gnosis” for a few reasons. First, gnosis itself is an
extremely vague term, and one that often requires unpacking. More importantly,
the word “gnosis” is derived from “Gnosticism,” a collection of beliefs within
Hellenistic strains of early Judeo-Christian thought (Aldo, “Free Will According
to the Gnostics,” 174–95; Thomassen, The Coherence of “Gnosticism”; Merkur,
Gnosis). While there are of course intriguing parallels between Christian and
Islamic esotericism, translating ma‘rifat as “gnosis” risks erasing the specificity
of its development within the Islamic tradition. My second reason is that there
are thousands of interpretations of what ma‘rifat entails, some of which may
run counter to the ideas espoused in this book, and so I translate ma‘rifat as
unknowing to reaffirm that it is this particular interpretation of ma‘rifat that is
being explored herein. In other words, when I refer to either ma‘rifat or unknowing
in this text, I am referring to that interpretation utilized by my interlocutors
unless specified otherwise. Lastly, my choice of “unknowing” is inspired by
Georges Bataille’s idea of “nonknowledge,” which he defines as “the undefinable,
what thought cannot conceive . . . everything that is contrary to knowledge,”
or in other words, that which we do not know, which remains unknown to us.
See Bataille, The Unfinished System of Nonknowledge, 131. The experience of this
“undefined knowledge,” however, is distinctly different from the experience of
ignorance, as Bataille elaborates further: “When I speak of nonknowledge now, I
mean essentially that I know nothing, and if that I am still talking, it is essentially
insofar as I have a knowledge that brings me to nothing” (Bataille, The Unfinished
System of Nonknowledge, 140). I have also utilized the gerund form to highlight the
experiential nature of Sufi knowledge, reaffirming the way it operates as an active
and participatory mode of thinking.
5. I avoid the term “Iranian Sufism” because this would imply a holistic study into Sufism
in all its current manifestations, including groups like the Kurdish Sunni Orders, and I
want to be clear that my manuscript does not claim to represent all mystical collectives
and/or strains of thoughts that exist within Iran today.
6. Mittermaier, Dreams that Matter; Taneja, Jinnealogy; Doostdar, The Iranian
Metaphysicals; Pandolfo, Knot of the Soul, 191.
7. Pandolfo, Knot of the Soul, 240.
8. I follow Devin Deweese’s definition of a Sufi order as a group of initiated members who
follow a single religious authority, and who can trace their organization back through
a chain of authority figures to an original founding member (Deweese, “ ‘Dis-ordering’
Sufism in Early Modern Central Asia” and “Organizational Patterns and Developments
within Sufi Communities”). Orders have often been closed to the public and/or
nonmembers, but that tended not to be my experience in Iran.
9. According to the 2008 Library of Congress Country Profile, Iran’s demographic was
65 percent Persian, 16 percent Azeri Turk, 7 percent Kurd, 6 percent Lur, 2 percent Arab,
2 percent Baluchi, 1 percent Turkmen, 1 percent Qashai, and less than 1 percent Armenian,
Assyrian, and Georgian.
10. This includes an acceptance and reverence for the twelve Imams of Twelver (Ithna-
ashari) Shi‘ism, belief in ideas such as divine justice (adalat), velayat (authority), ijtihad
(legal reasoning) adherence to all Shi‘i holidays, veneration of saints, prayer formations,
and more. For works that provide an overview of Twelver as well as Zaydi and Ismaili
Shi‘ism in English, see the works of Najam Haidar, The Origins of the Shī‘a and Shi‘i Islam,
and Amir-Moezzi, The Spirituality of Shi‘i Islam.
11. For more discussions of how to define an order, see Deweese, “ ‘Dis-ordering’ Sufism,”
and “Organizational Patterns and Developments”; Ernst and Lawrence, Sufi Martyrs of
Love; Green, “Emerging Approaches to the Sufi Traditions of South Asia,” 123–48; Green,
Sufism.
12. Kiani, Tarikhe Khanegha Dar Iran; Abisaab, Converting Persia; Connell, The Nimatullahi
Sayyids of Taft; Lewisohn, “An Introduction to the History of Modern Persian Sufism,
Part I,” 437–64; Zarrinkub, Jostojou dar tassavof-e Iran; Nurbakhsh, Masters of the Path.
13. Doostdar, The Iranian Metaphysicals.
14. Haeri, Say What Your Longing Heart Desires, 144–45.
15. These included:Sufism: Meaning, Knowledge, Unity; Ma‘arifa Sufiya; Sufi Symbolism,
Vol. 8, Insations, Revelations, Lights.
16. Haeri, Say What Your Longing Heart Desires; Shams, A Revolution in Rhyme; Manoukian,
City of Knowledge in Twentieth Century Iran; Olszewska, The Pearl of Dari; Fischer, Mute
Dreams, Blind Owls, and Dispersed Knowledges; Fischer and Abedi, Debating Muslims.
17. Prior to 1979 the seminaries were famously not state run (although it might be argued
they had a certain copacetic relationship with the Shah), and one was able to study
194 Notes to Introduction

mysticism with a teacher, sometimes in a formal classroom setting, sometimes in private
lessons. See Fischer, Iran, for more on the history of the Qom seminary in twentieth-
century Iran. Today t here are both state-run and independent seminaries, with tasavvuf
debated and discussed in both.
18. Walbridge, The Most Learned of the Shia; Fischer, Iran; Asghari, “Islamic Philosophy
and Sufism in the Contemporary Shia Seminary and Their Opponents (1850–present).”
19. Majzub’alishah, “Sufigari, Shi‘igari, Erfan,” 18.
20. Mittermaier, “Dreams from Elsewhere,” 249.
21. Pandolfo, Knot of the Soul.
22. Manoukian, “Thinking with the Impersonal,” 212.
23. Hu refers to an invocation of the name of God, a shortened version of Allah-Hu, and is
often used as a declarative during moments of emotional intensity.
24. The idea that existence is marked by an interplay between the Real and the Unreal is
not exclusive to Nimatullahi Sufism but is a widely discussed conceptual matrix analyzed
by such luminaries of mystical thought as al-Ghazzali, Ibn Arabi, Rumi, and many others.
25. Lévi-Strauss, Tristes Tropiques.
26. Boyarin, The Ethnography of Reading, 6. An early proponent of situating the project of
ethnography at the nexus between anthropology, literary studies, and critical theory, in
his work Boyarin has tackled how thought processes and thinking through reading might
be understood as a form of human “practice.”
27. Fischer and Abedi, Debating Muslims; Messick, The Calligraphic State and Shari‘a
Scripts.
28. See Fabian, Out of Our Minds; Mittermaier, “The Book of Visions,” 229–47.
29. See Hull, Government of Paper; Das and Poole, “Anthropology in the Margins of the
State,” 140–44; Gupta, Red Tape.
30. See Rosen, “Ethnographies of Reading,” 1059–83.
31. Manoukian, City of Knowledge, 205.
32. Absent from this discussion is the obfuscation of meaning within Persian poetry for
reasons outside the Sufi tradition. The employment of rhetorical devices like metaphor
(est‘areh), simile (tashbih), figurative speech (majaz), and analogy (tamthil)—all tropes
that may be said to “hide” meaning—is an essential skill of any sophisticated writer.
Indeed, the field of classical Persian literary theory is a rich and well-developed discipline,
and for some literary theorists such as Jurjani (d. 1078) and Mohammad al-R aduyani
(d. 1100), the more complicated and obtuse the wordplay, the better. As Seyed-Gohrab
has written, however, the employment of these tropes were valued not only for their
originality and sophistication, but because they provided “puzzles” for their audiences to
unravel, a chance for the erudite reader to demonstrate their analytical skills and engage
with the poem on a deeper level as they would solve the riddle behind the words
Notes to Introduction 195

(Seyed-Gohrab, ed., Metaphor and Imagery in Persian Poetry). I would argue that there is a
stark difference between such valorization of metaphor/obscured meaning as a puzzle to
be resolved and what the Sufis would believe: namely, that obscured meanings are there
not to be solved but to allow for further—nay, endless—opportunities for engagement.
33. Haeri, Say What Your Longing Heart Desires; Fischer, Mute Dreams, Blind Owls.
34. The distinction between a Sufi philosopher and a Sufi poet is not necessarily an easy
one to make. Here, I base the distinction on the different written forms employed by the
two groups as the key determining factor.
35. Junayd Baghdadi and Ahmad Ghazzali are considered sheikhs of the order and, given
their prolific output, are hence a natural reference for the sheikhs. Ibn Arabi, a self-
identified Sunni from Al-Andalus and perhaps one of the most influential and widely read
Sufis of all time, is more curious. His popularity is due not only to the widespread analysis
of his writings in Iran at the time, particularly for the jurists of the School of Isfahan, but
also that Shah Nimatullah Vali, the namesake of the order, in fact translated Ibn Arabi’s
masterwork, Bezels of Wisdom (Fusus al-Hikam), into Persian and commented upon it
(see Nasr, Sufi Essays).
36. Tamimi Arab, “A Minaret of Light,” 136–63. Lee, “Technology and the Production of
Islamic Space,” 86–100.
37. Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape.
38. Hirschkind, “Hearing Modernity”; Larkin, “Techniques of Inattention,” 989–1015;
Khan, “The Acoustics of Muslim Striving,” 571–94; Spadola, The Calls of Islam.
39. Erlmann, “But What of the Ethnographic Ear?,” 1–20; Bull and Back, eds.,The Auditory
Culture Reader.
40. Clifford, “Introduction: Partial Truths,” 12.
41. Attali, Noise.
42. Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity.
43. Deleuze, Difference and Repetition, xix.
Chapter One. Sufism in Iran, Iran in Sufism
1. Doostdar, Iranian Metaphysicals.

2. Safi, The Politics of Knowledge in Premodern Islam.
3. Babayan, Mystics, Monarchs, and Messiahs.
4. Megan Specia, “Who Are Sufi Muslims and Why Do Some Extremists Hate Them?”
New York Times, Nov. 17, 2017.
5. The Safavids date back to Safi-ad-din Ardaabil (d. 1334), who transformed the Zahediya
Sufi Order to bear his name. It was only when Shakyh Junayd assumed leadership in 1447
196 Notes to Introduction

that they turned to vying for political power at all, until the Safavid Shah Ismaili took
power, beating out several rival groups in the wake of the collapse of Timur. Melville,
Safavid Persia.
6. Bayat, Mysticism and Dissent; De Jong and Radtke, Islamic Mysticism Contested.
7. Arjomand, The Shadow of God and the Hidden Imam; Bayat, Mysticism and Dissent.
8. Chahardahi, Selsel-ehha-yi Ṣufiyah-e Iran.
9. Anzali, “Mysticism” in Iran.
10. I should note that Anzali’s theory is in contrast to that of Zarrinkub, one of the
preeminent historians of Sufism in Iran. In his classic 1972 work, Iranian Sufism in
Historical Perspective, Zarrinkub argues that the disdain for the category of sufigari arises
because of Iranians’ inherent dislike for organized Sufism, therein eschewing sufigari
for the more dispersed phenomenon of erfan. Zarrinkub, alongside other figures like
literary historian Shafi‘i Kadkani, also use erfan and tasavvuf interchangeably, failing to
note a serious difference between the terms. See Zarrinkub, Tassavof-i irani dar manzare
tarkhie-an; Shafi‘i Kadkani, Advar-e shehr-e farsi.
11. Corbin, En Islam Iranian, vol. 1, Le Shi‘isme duodécimain; Corbin, The Voyage and the
Messenger; Nasr, “Philosophy in Islam,” 57–80.
12. Corbin, “Confessions extatiques de Mir Damad,” 331–78, and “La place de Molla Sadra
Shiraza dans la philosophie iranienne,” 81–113; Nasr, “The School of Iṣpahān,” 904–32;
Anari, Maktab-e Eṣfahan dar šahr-sāzi. See also Khatami, From a Sadraean Point of
View.
13. As Knysh points out, Ibn Arabi never used “wahdat al-wujud” himself but is largely
credited with the phrase. Knysh, “ ‘Irfan’ Revisited,” 631–53.
14. Indeed, there w
ere some groups that were vying for political power. Remember that
the Safavid themselves arose out of a Sufi order that then turned its attention to the politi
cal realm. See Abisaab, Converting Persia.
15. Van Den Bos, Mystic Regimes.
16. Yazdi, “Irfan va Hikmat.”
17. Sabzavari, Shahr-I Mazuma.
18. Algar, “The Fusion of the Gnostic and Politics in the Life of Imam Khomeini.”
19. Knysh, “ ‘Irfan’ Revisited,” 631–53.
20. Knysh, “ ‘Irfan’ Revisited,” 634.
21. Ruhollah Khomeini, Misbaḥ al-hidaya ila al-khilafa wa al-wilaya.
22. Fischer, Iran, 242.
23. Knysh, “ ‘Irfan’ Revisited,” 651.
24. A series of five televised lectures broadcast from December 1979 to January 1980; see
Khomeini, Islam and Revolution.
Notes to Chapter One 197

25. Khomeini, Islam and Revolution, 365.
26. Khomeini, Islam and Revolution, 366.
27. Najafian, “Poetic Nation.”
28. According to Najafian, what is available from Khomeini’s poetry is from two eras: the
love poems (ghazals) he wrote as a young man, and the poetry he composed in the late
1980s during the final period of his life. The fifty-five years’ worth of poetry he composed
in between, however, remains lost, or at least unpublished.
29. The translations are credited to Dr. Ghulam Reza Avani.
30. Tihrani, Shining Sun.
31. Ehteshami and Rizvi, “Beyond the Letter,” 443–60.
32. Tihrani, Shining Sun, 70.
33. Asghari, “Islamic Philosophy and Sufism in the Contemporary Shia Seminary and
their Opponents (1850–present).”
34. Tihrani, Ruh-e Mujarrad.
35. Vakili goes into detail about this on his personal website: https://mhva.ir/about/.
The site is titled “Shaykh Mohammad Hassan Vakil: The Source for Information on the
Hojjat-al Islam al-Muslameen (Shaykh Mohammad Hassan Vakil: Paygha Etelaat Resani
Hojjatalislam al-Muslameen).” It h ouses a number of Ostad Hojjat al-eslam Vakili’s
publications, links to purchase his books, audio, and visual recordings of his various
sermons and lectures, his biography, and links to his social media accounts.
36. Vakili, Mohayaldin; Shi‘i Khales. See also Vakili, Maktab-I Tafkiki: Tarikh va Naqd.
37. See Ashtiyani, “Naqd-i Tahafut-i Ghazzālī.” For an introduction to his work, see
Ashtiyani, Erfan. For more on the anti-Sufi Tafkiki school, see Rizvi, “ ‘Only the Imam
Knows Best,’ ” 487–503.
38. For more on Amoli’s views on everything from jurisprudence to the role of Mahdism
in the contemporary, see the website of his foundation, the Esra International Foundation
of Revelatory Sciences, http://javadi.esra.ir/home.
39. “Vijegi-haye Erfani-e Imam Khomeini Az Manzar-e Ayatollah Javadi Amoli,” http://
javadi.esra.ir/-/ ‫های‬-‫عرفان‬-‫امام‬-‫خمینی‬-‫قدس‬-‫سره‬-‫از‬-‫منظر‬-‫ایت‬-‫هللا‬-‫جوادی‬-‫املی‬. The official website of
Ayatollah Javadi Amoli features recordings of his sermons, his latest statements, ways to
contact his office, and of course his writings.
40. http://javadi.esra.ir/-/ ‫ معرفت‬-‫شناسی‬-‫عرفان‬-،‫ حقیقی‬-‫شهود‬-‫ذات‬-‫است‬-‫بین‬-‫خدا‬-‫و‬-‫خلق‬-‫هیچ‬-‫حجابی‬
-‫نیست‬-‫مگر‬-‫خود‬-‫خلق‬.
41. For more, see the work of Odabaei, “The Outside (Kharij) of Tradition in the
Aftermath of the Revolution,” 296–311, and “Giving Words.”
42. Haeri, Say What Your Longing Heart Desires.
43. Doostdar, Iranian Metaphysicals, 3.
198 Notes to Chapter One

44. Doostdar, Iranian Metaphysicals, 149–51.
45. Doostdar, Iranian Metaphysicals, 153.
46. Shams, A Revolution in Rhyme, 189.
50. Hazrat Nur‘Ali often added a caveat to labeling Shah Nimatullah Vali as the “founder”
of the order for, despite it bearing his name, Nur‘Ali claimed that the real founder was in
fact Imam Ali, the son-in-law of the prophet Muhammad.
51. Anonymous, Zendigename Shah Nimatullahi Vali.
52. Another theory holds that the Nimatullahi Sufis of Iran felt disconnected from their
spiritual leader in the Deccan, prompting them to request a representative be sent from
India. See Pourjavady and Wilson, “Isma‘ilis and Ni‘matullahis,” 113–35, for more on this
period.
53. Indeed, Shah Nimatullah and his successors were Sunni. In subsequent years, the
Nimatullahi would explain this small fact away by noting that (1) Shah Nimatullah
recognized Imam Ali as the beginning of the chain of succession (silsileh), thereby
providing enough evidence for Shi‘i qualifications according to later qotbs; and (2) Shah
Nimatullahi also traced his own lineage back to Imam Musa Kazem, the seventh Shi‘i
Imam, giving him the status of seyed (or descendent of the prophet), to further pad his
Shi‘i bona fides.
54. Tabandeh, “The Rise of Nimatullahi Shi‘ite Sufism,” 126–43.
55. Mottahadeh, The Mantle of the Prophet; Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam; Cole,
Sacred Space and Holy War.
56. Tabandeh, “The Rise of Nimatullahi Shi‘ite Sufism,” 165. See also Tabandeh, The Rise
of the Ni‘matullāhī Order.
57. Rizvi, “Before the Safavid-Ottoman Conflict,” 113–26.
58. Anonymous, Zendigename Shah Nimatullahi Vali.
59. Shirwani, Kashf al-Ma‘arif.
60. Tabandeh, “The Rise of Nimatullahi Shi‘ite Sufism,” 240.
61. Chahardahi, Selsel-ehha-yi Sufiyah-e Iran; Van Den Bos, Mystic Regimes, 77.
62. Cancian, “ ‘I’m Only a Village Farmer and a Dervish’,” 136–38.
63. Van Den Bos, Mystic Regimes, 88.
64. Van Den Bos, Mystic Regimes, 87; Saleh Ali Shah, Pand-e Saleh, 7.
66. Kasravi, Sufigari.
Notes to Chapter One 199

68. Eilers, “Educational and Cultural Development in Iran During the Pahlavi Era,” 310–31.
69. Eilers, “Educational and Cultural Development in Iran During the Pahlavi Era,” 303–31;
Lewisohn, “An Introduction to the History of Modern Persian Sufism, Part II,” 36–59.
70. Reza-Ali Shah, Nazar-e mazhabi be e’lamiye-ye huquq-e bashar, 48.
71. The term was coined by Ahmad Fardid and made popular through the highly
influential 1962 essay of the same name by Jalal Al-e Ahmad.
72. The story is also recounted in a 1994 sermon of Mahbub Ali Shah. See also Van Den
Bos, Mystic Regimes, 141.
73. Mahbub Ali Shah, Khorshid-e Tabande, 81.
75. Given the number of assassinations that occurred in the years following the revolution,
there were unfortunately plenty of opportunities for such activities; see Dabashi, Theology
of Discontent; Keddie, Modern Iran.
76. Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran, Article 13, Section 1, “General Principles.”
77. Despite this legal recognition, these groups have at times faced difficulties, especially
in regard to inheritance laws and public ceremonies. For more see Sanasarian, Religious
Minorities in Iran, vol. 13.
78. The Twelver Ja’fari school, the official religion of Iran, is a form of Shi‘i Islam. It is so
named because of its recognition of the twelve Imams who claim lineage to Imam Ali,
the son-in-law of the Prophet Muhammad, and refers to the influential sixth Imam, Jafar
al-Sadeq.
79. Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Iran, Article 12, Section 1, “General Principles.”
80. Momen and Smith, “The Baha’i Faith 1957–1988,” 63–91.
81. Tavakoli-Targhi, “Refashioning Iran,” 77–101; Keddie, Modern Iran. Others have refuted
these claims: Momen, An Introduction to Shi‘i Islam, 2004.
82. Van Den Bos, Mystic Regimes.
83. For more, see Hermann and Rezai, “Constitution en vaqf d’une ‘mosquée sanctuaire’
ne‘matollāhī à Téhéran à l’époque pahlavī,” 293–306.
84. The practice of using residential spaces for religious ceremonies organized by lay
people, without the help of any official channels or clergymen, is extremely common
among Iranians and is certainly not exclusive to Sufis. It is more often used for azadari
(mourning or lamentation) or roozekhaneh (literally house of prayer). Typically, it is
owned by a person of some wealth, one who is able to afford an extra house or apartment,
and then is used by a wide network of family and friends. In certain instances, the h ouse
that children may inherit from parents may be used for mahdaviye. More often than not,
however, these ceremonies are simply held in p eople’s own homes, the complaints of
200 Notes to Chapter One

neighbors notwithstanding. The name mahdaviye is derived from the name of the twelfth
and final Imam, Imam Mehdi, so that it means literally “place of Mehdi.”
85. The word fozul translates as both adjective and noun, “nosy” and “busybody,” usually
indicating a harmless, if irritating, person. Sometimes, however, as in the usage h ere, it is
meant to suggest something a bit more sinister, an individual who may report any sort of
activity they may deem suspicious to a wide array of authorities, most likely the Ershad or
Komiteh, both official policing bodies that monitor “un-Islamic activities.”
86. I was asked not to reveal this line. In decades past, the particul ar quatrain changed
from week to week, but the practice eventually became too complicated.
87. This is the honorific most commonly used to address the spiritual leader. The word
hazrat, Arabic for “presence,” is used often in reference to the twelve Imams and other
holy figures, i.e., Hazrat Zahra. When used here, it can be translated as roughly “His
Presence,” the word “agha” meaning “sir” or “mister.”
88. This is significant as it marks a distinction from the dress of the clerical establishment,
who wear both the brown robe and the turban to mark their clerical status. Tellingly, the
Sufi sheikhs and pirs have voluntarily stopped wearing the ammameh during the past
twenty years in order to demonstrate their distinction from the clerics.
Chapter Two. Unknowing of Text, Unknowing of Authority
1. For more on modern doreh circles, see Haeri, Say What Your Longing Heart Desires;
Tawasil, “The Howzevi (Seminarian) Women in Iran”; Osanloo, The Politics of Women’s
Rights in Iran.
2. Imam Jafar al-Sadeq is a key historical figure in many Sufi and Shi‘i discourses,
and, among other things, is known for emphasizing the idea of political quietism and
esotericism within Shi‘ism. For more see Amir-Moezzi, The Divine Guide in Early Shi‘ism.
3. For more, see Lewisohn, The Heritage of Sufism.
4. Kiani, Tarikhe Khanegha Dar Iran.
5. Van Den Bos, Mystic Regimes; Anzali, “Mysticism” in Iran.
6. Green, Sufism; Ridgeon, Morals and Mysticism in Persian Sufism; Karamustafa, Sufism.
7. Odabaei, “Giving Words.”
8. As previously mentioned, Sheikh Noroozi is part of a very extensive tradition of Sufis
who advocate for thinking beyond the intellect and there are strains of more esoterically
inclined Shi‘i tafsir where one can find similar sentiments. For example, the idea of
learning through kashf, which is typically translated as unveiling but can also operate
as a form of epistemology. And Sayyed Haydar Amoli argues for a spiritual unveiling
(kauhf maʿnavi) as a means to bypass the limitations of the intellect and reality, and it
is only through this bypassing that one is able to comprehend the divine (Amoli, Jamiʻ
al-asrar wa-manbaʻ al-anwar lil-maʻarif al-mutaʼllih al-wali). Allameh Tabatabai has also
Notes to Chapter Two 201

written on the concept of kashf, and Sajjad Rizvi has intriguingly translated Tabatabai’s
understanding of kashf as “inner revelation,” suggesting a type of awareness that comes
(as in a revelation) to oneself in such a way that it was not consciously summoned. (Rizvi,
“Striving Beyond the Balance [al-Mizan],” 65). More specifically, Rizvi describes how,
in Tabatabai’s Risalat al-Walayat, “The epistemological hierarchy is clear, and follows in
ascending order: the senses, the intellect, inner revelation (kashf) and vision (shuhud).
Tabatabai then cites numerous Qur’anic verses and hadiths that support his contention”
(“Striving Beyond the Balance [al-Mizan],” 65). I highlight both these examples to note
that the idea of thinking beyond the intellect does not operate only within Sufi circles.
The resonances between kashf and the inner heart, as well as other concepts like intuition
à la al-Ghazali, surely require further attention.
9. Golestaneh, “ ‘Text and Contest’,” 197–224.
10. The wandering mystic Shams encountered Rumi in Konya in AD 1244. According to
a number of Sufi traditions, after they spent a number of years together, Shams departed
Konya suddenly under mysterious conditions. Rumi was anguished at the loss of Shams
from his life, and continued to attribute much of his poetry to Shams, even many years
after his muse and mentor’s departure. See Lewis, Rumi—Past and Present, East and West;
Chittick, The Sufi Doctrine of Rumi.
11. This is a reference to a verse from the eleventh-century poet Baba Taher.
12. To provide just one example, in her discussion of Sufi exegesis as a form of mirroring,
where the content of the Qur’an may only be revealed/unveiled when the reader is pure
of heart, Annabel Keeler has described how it is the force of the ideas that command and
shape the readings. Keeler, “Sufi Tafsir as a Mirror,” 1–21. See also Knysh, “Sufism and the
Quran,” 137–59; Godlas, “Sufism,” 418–29; and Böwering, The Mystical Vision of Existence
in Classical Islam.
13. Many have claimed that theses ayas were included to distinguish the Qur’an from pre-
Islamic forms of Arabic poetry, especially the odes. Bateson, Structural Continuity in Poetry.
14. Analyzing Qur’anic references within Islamic poetry is a task without end, so much
so that the best approach would be to look to the studies of individual poets to better
understand. I would particularly recommend looking to non-English sources in this
instance, with the works of Allameh Tabatabai on Hafez being a particularly rich source.
15. Perhaps the most prolific cataloger of Sufi Qur’anic hermeneutics is Gerard Böwering,
who categorizes the development of this genre into five separate periods: (1) the era of
the “precursors,” individuals like Imam Jafar al-Sadeq, (2) the era of al-Sulami, (3) the era
of institutionalized Sufism, (4) Persianate and non-Arab Sufism, and (5) the era of Sufism
in “decline.” I must admit I find this categorization problematic for a number of reasons,
not only because it supports the “rise and fall” motive of “Islamic civilization,” but
because of the Arabic-centric nature of its positioning. For other works on Sufi Qur’anic
Hermeneutics, see Keeler et al., The Spirit and the Letter; Cancian, Approaches to the
Our’an in Contemporary Iran, which contains excellent contemporary Sufi Qur’anic tafsir
as well; and Cancian, “Translation, Authority and Exegesis in Modern Iranian Sufism.”
202 Notes to Chapter Two

16. Jamal Elias has thoughtfully countered this idea of Sufi tafsir as a genre unto itself,
arguing that such an idea does not critically investigate what is meant both by the
term “Sufi” and the term “genre.” Instead, he advocates for these esoterically inclined
commentaries to be considered in light of their contemporaries, especially given the fact
that many of these Sufis cited many non-Sufis’ works in their writings, rather than being
forced into a potentially more ahistorical and overdetermined Sufi genre. Elias, “Sufi
Tafsir Reconsidered.”
17. It is also sometimes translated as “inner meaning of the esoteric meaning”
(Steigerwald, “Twelver Shıʿı Taʾwıl,” 449); or “esoteric of the esoteric” (Andani, “A
Survey of Ismaili Studies, Part 1,” 191–206).
18. Elias, “Sufi Tafsir Reconsidered.”
19. Elias, “Sufi Tafsir Reconsidered,” 48.
20. Both have written extensively on Hallaj.
21. Mittermaier, Dreams That Matter.
22. Bachelard, Poetics of Space, 15.
23. Haleem, The Qur’an, 34.
24. Golestaneh, “Text and Contest.”
25. Ricoeur, “The Model of the Text,” 108.
26. Kant, Critique of Judgement.
27. Ahmed, What Is Islam?, 283.
28. Ahmed, What Is Islam?, 284.
Chapter Three. Unknowing of Self, Unknowing of Body
1. Böwering disputes this. Bistami’s writings are quite limited, but his influence is outsized,
and he is cited by many prolific writers such as Attar, Sarraj, and others.
2. Losensky translation in Sells, Early Islamic Mysticism, 234.
3. Torab, “Piety as Gendered Agency,” 235–52; Haeri, “The Private Performance of ‘Salat’
Prayers,” 5–34.
4. The beggar’s bowl, or kashkul, was carried by wandering mystics in Iran. Kashkuls are
legible to both Sufis and non-Sufis as being emblematic of mysticism, and are used to
connote devotion to a life of spiritual and material poverty.
5. Sells, Early Islamic Mysticism, 240.
6. Keeler, Sufi Hermeneutics.
7. Nurbakhsh, “Sufism and Psychoanalysis,” 211–12.
Notes to Chapter Three 203

9. Ernst, Words of Ecstasy in Sufism; Ernst, Hallaj.
10. Abdel-Kader, The Life, Personality and Writings of Al-Junayd, 84; emphasis added.
11. See Maybudi, Sarraj, among others.
12. Sells, Early Islamic Mysticism, 240.
13. Tabatabai, Allameh, Risalat-e Wilayat.
14. Slightly complicating matters is the fact that many Iranians, Sufi and non-Sufi, will
actually visit graves of saints in order to ask for their children to receive good grades, even
if for Setare and Sara such a request would fall into the “insignificant” category.
15. I should also note that, to my knowledge, the phrase “the heart of God” (del-e khoda)
is not a common one with Sufi thought, Persian poetry, or really any mystical literature at
all. Although I may be mistaken, there is a chance it is a phrase of Minoo’s own devising or
a slight malapropism.
16. Although radio became available to private homes in the 1940s, many households, if
not the majority, still did not have one. See Mokhtari-Isfahani, Sargozasht-e Radio Dar
Iran beh Revayat-e Esnaad .
17. Al-e Ahmad, Gharb-zadagi. For more on Al-e Ahmad’s influence see Boroujerdi,
“Gharbzadegi”; Dabashi, Theology of Discontent; Gheissari, Iranian Intellectuals in the Twentieth
Century. Though popularized by Al-e Ahmad, the term was coined by Ahmad Fardid.
18. Vahdat, “Return to Which Self?,” 55–71.
19. A lecture entitled “Bazgasht bi Khishtan” (“Return to Self ”), two articles in the
newspaper Kayan, “Bazgasht bi Khish” (“Return to Self ”), and an article entitled
“Bazghasht bi Kodoom Khish” (“Return to Which Self ”), all available in Shariati,
Nivishtah’i Ali Shariati, 4.
20. Rahnema, An Islamic Utopian; Ghamari-Tabrizi, “Contentious Public Religion,” 504–23.
21. Shariati, Nivishtah’i Ali Shariati, 4.
22. Shariati, Vares-I Adam, 215.
23. Davari, “A Return to Which Self?,” 103.
24. Davari “A Return to Which Self?,” 89.
25. Khanlarzadeh, “Theology of Revolution,” 504.
26. Khanlarzadeh, “Theology of Revolution,” 505.
27. Ghamari-Tabrizi, Foucault in Iran, 91. For more on Shariati and mysticism see also
Ghamari-Tabrizi, “Moderneti Erfaani” and Rahnema, An Islamic Utopian.
28. Golestaneh, “ ‘To Be Transformed into Thought Itself ’.”
29. Golestaneh, “ ‘To Be Transformed into Thought Itself ’.”
30. Odabaei, “The Outside (Kharij) of Tradition”; Bajoghli, Iran Reframed. Of course,
there are many individuals within Iran, inside and outside the political establishment,
204 Notes to Chapter Three

who would shake their heads at the “shallowness” of the young population, decrying
them as social media addicts and the like, and there have been several cases tying this to
Western influence, but as a whole it is very different.
31. Numerologically, 121 “translates” into “Help me [Imam] Ali.”
32. al-Ghazzali, “On Listening to Music,” 17.
33. al-Ghazzali, “On Listening to Music.”
34. At this juncture, one might suggest a separate study of the various forms of listening
within Islamic practice in light of this unique instance of Sufi audition within the zekr
ritual. In particular, the role of audition within the pedagogical tradition (see Messick,
The Calligraphic State); the sermon tradition (see Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape); or
even the original revelation of the Qu’ran might prove compelling points of comparison.
In addition, I would like to reassert that al-Ghazzali is not offering a definitive type of
listening with this quote—indeed, he goes to great lengths to delineate several forms
of “unlawful listening” within “On Listening to Music”—but is in fact positing that, in
certain contexts, audition contains this imaginative potential.
39. Nurbakhsh, Sufi Symbolism, 3:189.
43. Netton, Sufi Ritual, 35.
44. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, 172.
45. Shannon, Among the Jasmine Trees, 122.
46. Derrida, Positions; Dabashi, Truth and Narrative.
47. Deleuze, Pure Immanence; Deleuze and Guatarri, A Thousand Plateaus.
48. Shannon, Among the Jasmine Trees, 118.
49. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, 168.
50. Asad, Genealogies of Religion; Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape; Mahmood,
“Rehearsed Spontaneity and the Conventionality of Ritual,” 827–53.
51. Bell, Ritual.
52. Asad, “Interview with Saba Mahmood.”
53. While Asad might take issue with positing Sufism as a distinct epistemological mode
of thought, having criticized the way in which Sufi and Salafi modes of thought are often
Notes to Chapter Three 205

put in opposition to one another (see Mahmood, “Interview with Talal Asad”), he himself
does offer the following distinction: “I think that most Salafi reformers would be critical
of Sufism when it transgressed one of the basic doctrines of Islam: the separation between
God and human beings. I’ve heard criticism of Sufi practices that seemed to imply
the possibility of complete union with God as opposed to the possibility of complete
openness to God. I think that that is the crucial point for many people who are critical of
Sufism.” (Mahmood, “Interview with Talal Asad.”)
54. al-Rumi in Trimingham, The Sufi Orders of Islam, 80.
55. My use of the term “mimesis” is based upon the definition set forth by Michael Taussig
in Mimesis and Alterity, where he describes it as “the faculty to copy, imitate, make models,
explore difference, yield into and become Other. The wonder of mimesis lies in the copy
drawing on the character and power of the original, to the point whereby the representa
tion may even assume that character and that power” (xiii). And while Taussig discusses
the mimetic faculty as occurring between disparate cultures in a postcolonial context, I
would offer here that the “Other” in question might be understood to be God or, more
specifically, the experience of God.
59. Taussig, What Color is the Sacred?, 14.
60. Azmayesh, Morvarid-e Sufi-gari, 89–90.
61. Taussig, Mimesis and Alterity, 53.
63. Cage, Silence, 38.
Chapter Four. Unknowing of Memory
1. The term hosseiniyeh translates into “place of Hossein,” referencing the third
Imam Hossein and one of Shi‘i Islam’s holiest figures. The building was referred to
interchangeably as a hosseiniyeh (temple), tomb (tekiyeh), and shrine, but was generally
used as a multipurpose meeting place for the order.
2. The English-language press materials of the Takhteh-Foulad Cultural Organization as
well as the Takhteh-Foulad Encyclopedia Office give the site the official title of “Takhteh-
Foulad Historical, Cultural, and Religious Complex” and alternately describe it as a
necropolis and cemetery. I employ both terms to describe it here.
3. Prior to the twentieth century, Sufi meeting places and temples were founded almost
exclusively with funding from the vaghf, a religious endowment or charitable trust
206 Notes to Chapter Three

nominally under the control of the clergy and based in sharia law. During the Safavid era
when Takhteh-Foulad was built, however, the sadr, or religious authority, was appointed
by the Shah (Ebrahimnejad, Medicine, Public Health, and the Qājār State; Floor, “The ‘ṣadr’
or head of the Safavid religious administration, judiciary and endowments and other
members of the religious institution”), and it was ultimately the nobility who maintained
control over such endeavors. A similar allocation of powers remained in existence
until the Islamic Revolution, when the clergy, often working through the municipal
government, assumed control. While the decision to fund such projects remains in the
hands of the state, the organizations that they housed would often remain autonomous
or semiautonomous, perhaps the most famous example being the Nimatullahi Sufi
hosseiniyeh in the center of Tehran in Park-e Shahr, founded during the Pahlavi era in the
twentieth century, which remains at least nominally “autonomous” today. The meeting
place (hosseiniyeh) at Takhteh-Foulad maintains a unique status among other shrines and
temples constructed before 1979 in that, while the cemetery complex of Takhteh-Foulad
has a vaghf-nameh (founding document), the Sufi hosseiniyeh housed within it itself
possesses no such documentation. As a result, it is categorized as a part of the Takhteh-
Foulad complex as a property of the municipal government (shahrdari records), rather
than as a private or semiprivate entity.
4. See, for example, Benjamin, The Arcades Project, and Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra,
103–439.
5. Dabaghi, Takht-e Foulad, ix.
6. Ghaem, Isfahan, Iran.
7. There are many other shrines that people visit, asking for happy marriages for their
themselves and their children, good heath, and comfortable homes, among other
things.
8. Doostdar, The Iranian Metaphysicals.
9. Karimi, “Imagining Warfare, Imaging Welfare,” 47–63; Khosronejad, Unburied
Memories; Moosavi, “How to Write Death,” 9–31; Partovi, “Martyrdom and the ‘Good
Life’ ” in the Iranian Cinema of Sacred Defense,” 513–32; Varzi, Warring Souls. See also
Aghaie, The Martyrs of Karbala.
10. For more on this, see Massumi, “The Political Ontology of Threat,” 52–70.
11. According to The World Factbook, 37 percent of the population is under twenty-four
years of age (2020 estimate). cia, “Field Listing—Age Structure,” The World Factbook,
https://www.cia.gov/the-world-f actbook/field/age-structure/.
12. Haleem, The Qur’an.
13. Taghi-Jaafari, Tarjome va Tafsir-e Nahj Al Balaghe.
14. Taghi-Jaafari, Tarjome va Tafsir-e Nahj Al Balaghe.
15. I would distinguish this stage, despite its in-between status, from that which is called a
liminal space. If we understand liminality as a form of rupture from reality, then the Sufis’
Notes to Chapter Four 207

experience of the Unreal would be distinctly different. They operate not within a break
from reality but one that is wholly separate from it, the “Unreal” at all times.
16. Bachelard, The Poetics of Reverie, 158.
17. Bachelard, The Poetics of Reverie.
18. Majzub‘alishah, “Sufigari, Shi‘igari, Erfan,” 15.
Chapter Five. Unknowing of Place
1. Wandering, in both the metaphorical and literal senses, has been associated with Islamic
mysticism since its earliest days. So central was the idea of wandering in early medieval
Sufism that the famed Persian theologian al-Hujwiri (d. 1077) divides Sufis into two
categories: settled (muqimon) and wanderers, or travelers (musafarin). For certain orders,
such as the Qalandariyya, it is their key characteristic, as its followers adhered to a life of
itinerancy (see Dahlén, “The Holy Fool in Medieval Islam,” 63–81). Even for those more
sedentary mystics, such as Jalal al-din Rumi or Hafez, the idea of wandering (sargardan,
suluk) is a central concern in their writing, often acting as a metaphor for the project
of mysticism as a whole, characterized as it often is as an endeavor of journeying and
restlessness, full of longing.
2. This is not to suggest that that which gets called a metaphor within mystical literature
does not come with its own highly complex set of issues. For the purposes of this book,
however, I am limiting the discussion to that of the literal. For more on the question of
metaphor within Sufism, see Sells, “Ibn’Arabi’s Polished Mirror”; Kugle, Sufis and Saints’
Bodies; Seyed-Gohrab, Metaphor and Imagery in Persian Poetry.
3. Sama is sometimes associated with a remembrance (zekr) ritual or listening to music
specifically (see Avery, A Psychology of Early Sufi Sama; Werbner, “Stamping the Earth
with the Name of Allah”), and has often generated much controversy over the centuries,
having been commented on by the likes of influential mystics such as al-Hujwiri,
al-Ghazzali, and Rumi (see Suvorova, Muslim Saints of South Asia; Keshavarz, Reading
Mystical Lyric).
4. Interview by author, December 2009. I have not been able to locate any written record
of this decree. Although revealed to me by my interlocutors, no written record exists, or
at least none that I was able to locate or access. I can confirm that they had been meeting
at the sheikh’s house prior to the forced cancellations of the meetings. I am not including
dates in order to further obscure the identities of my interlocutors.
5. The practice of begging by “holy men” was not frowned upon in many circles until the
late nineteenth century. For more see Tabandeh, “The Rise of Nimatullahi Shi‘ite Sufism
in Early Nineteenth-Century Qajar Persia.”
6. Saleh Ali Shah, Pand-e Saleh, xi.
7. Ibrahim, Improvisational Islam, 22.
208 Notes to Chapter Four

8. Odabaei, “The Outside (Kharij) of Tradition”; Tawasil, “The Howzevi (Seminarian)
omen in Iran.”
W
9. One of the foremost debates within Sufi scholarship is the question of literalism
versus the metaphoric. For example, a common trope is to describe states of ecstasy or
intoxication as integral to the mystical experiences, with invocations of wine-bearers
(saqi) and wine-houses (sharabkhaneh). Scholars have debated for centuries as to
whether we understand these lines of prose to be extolling actual intoxication, where wine
is utilized as a catalyst to come closer to the divine, or simply as a metaphor used to evoke
mystical experience. See Saeidi and Unwin, “Persian Wine Tradition and Symbolism,”
97–114; Seyed-Gohrab, Metaphor and Imagery in Persian Poetry.
10. Mahmood, “Secularism, Hermeneutics, and Empire,” 340.
11. Gleave, Islam and Literalism, viii.
12. Deleuze, Difference and Repetition, 204.
13. Taussig, What Color Is the Sacred?; McLean, “Black Goo,” 589–619; Stewart, Ordinary
Affects.
14. Majzub’alishah, “Sufigari, Shi‘igari, Erfan,” 15.
15. Azmayesh, The Teachings of a Sufi Master, 12.
17. Al-Faruqi, “Music, Musicians and Muslim Law,” 3–36; Nelson, “Reciter and Listener,”
41–47.
18. For pedagogical techniques, see Messick, The Calligraphic State; for sermons and
circulation, see Hirschkind, “Hearing Modernity,” 131, and Hirschkind, The Ethical
Soundscape; for Qur’anic recitation practices, see Graham and Kermani, “Part One:
Recitation of the Quran.”
19. See Kapchan, Traveling Spirit Masters and “The Promise of Sonic Translation,” 467–83;
Frischkopf, “Tarab (‘Enchantment’) in the Mystic Sufi Chant of Egypt,” 233–69; Qureshi,
Sufi Music of India and Pakistan, vol. 1.
20. “Traditional” (sonati) Iranian music typically refers to music that utilizes Persian
instruments, is based upon the classical harmonic minor form, and has the radif rhythm
structure. See Azadehfar, Rhythmic Structure in Iranian Music.
21. Irfan, derived from the Arabic ma‘rifat, literally means knowledge or gnosis, but in
the colloquial sense often refers to the mystical tradition in the Persian humanities,
i.e., medieval Persian poetry. For more on the distinction between the interconnected
categories of irfan, tasavvuf, and Sufism, see Anzali, “Mysticism” in Iran.
22. Hirschkind, The Ethical Soundscape.
23. Larkin, “Techniques of Inattention.”
24. Schafer, The Tuning of the World, 13.
Notes to Chapter Five 209

25. And yet, as Naveeda Khan has pointed out, the azan can also provoke reactions of
indifference or outright hostility (“The Acoustics of Muslim Striving,” 587). See also
Spadola, The Calls of Islam; Lee, “Technology and the Production of Islamic Space,”
86–100; Eisenberg, “Islam, Sound and Space,” 186–202
26. McLuhan, Media Research, 41.
27. Toop, Haunted Weather, 58.
28. Connor, “Edison’s Teeth.”
29. Henriques, “Sonic Dominance and the Reggae Sound System Session,” 459.
30. Kafka, Blue Octavo Notebooks, 46.
31. Rumi, Masnavi, 736–37.
Postscript (Reng). Improvisation and Unknowing
1. In the Oxford Handbook of Critical Improvisation Studies, editors George Lewis and
Benjamin Piekut very clearly state that they offer no working definition: “This Handbook
makes no explicit attempt to negotiate a single overarching definition of improvisation.
Rather, as we see it, the critical study of improvisation seeks to examine improvisation’s
effects, interrogate its discourses, interpret narratives and histories related to it, discover
implications of those narratives and histories, and uncover its ideologies.” Lewis and
Piekut, Oxford Handbook of Critical Improvisation Studies, Introduction.
2. Iranian classical music is based on the dastgah system, which is a musical modal system
organized around the rearranging of several hundred melodic motifs (gusheh). Differ
ent dastgahs may then come together to form a collection known as a radif. Jean During
describes the dastgah as “a collection of discrete and heterogeneous elements organized
into a hierarchy that is entirely coherent though nevertheless flexible.” Jean During,
“Dastgah,” Encyclopedia Iranica, https://iranicaonline.org/articles/dastgah. For more on
this see Farhat, The Dastgah Concept in Persian Music.
3. Nooshin, “Improvisation as ‘Other,’ ” 253; emphasis added.
4. Nooshin, “Improvisation as ‘Other,’ ” 263.
5. Rumi, Masnavi, 2:156.
210 Notes to Chapter Five

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index
Page numbers in italics refer to figures.
Abbakhshan cemetery (Isfahan), 141 Amoli, Ayatollah Hassan Hasanzadeh, 41

Abdel-Kader, A. H., 105 Amoli, Sayyed Haydar, 201n8
Abedi, Mehdi, 20 Ana al-Haqq Reconsidered (Hallaj, 1972), 165
Abu Bakr, 70 analogy, 88, 162, 195n32
aesthetic theory, Islamic, 23, 126–28 anamnesis, 129
affect, aesthetics and, 23–24, 125, 127 Andalusia, 34, 37, 46
Afghanis tan, 51 anthropology, 24, 112
Ahl-e Bayt (companions of the Prophet), Anzali, Ata, 34, 197n10
75, 84 application (amal), 4
Ahmed, Shahab, 92–93 aql (intellect, rational thought), 5, 44, 62,
Ahmed I Vali, 46 209n9
akhunds (mullahs/clerics), 147 Arabic language, 46, 61, 83, 125, 136; calligra-
Al-e Ahmad, Jalal, 6, 118, 121, 200n71; ideas phy, 139; technical Arabic, 176
on futurity, 119; “return to the self ” and, Arāni, Tariq, 50
27, 100; “Westoxification” (Gharbzadegi) Asad, Talal, 93, 130, 206n53
essay, 117 Asghari, Seyed Amir, 41
Ali, Imam (son-in-law of Prophet Mu- Ashraf, Princess, 87
hammad), 70, 111, 200n78; birthday Ashtiyani, Sayyid Jalal al-Din, 41, 42
celebrations for, 57; Nahj Al-Balaghe Ashura holiday, 146
(sermons) of, 61, 156; Qur’anic exegesis Assembly of Experts, 36, 42
and, 76; tomb in Najaf, 139 Attali, Jacques, 24
Ali, Mulla Sultan, 37 Attar, 23, 45, 63, 77, 82
Ali, Nasser, tomb of, 136, 142, 146, 147 authenticity (bi-esalat), 117
Ali-Reza, 87 authority, spiritual, 26, 60, 66; derived from
Alishah, Hazrat Mahbub, 13 textual authority, 65; exegesis and, 77;
Ali Shah, Husayn, 47–48 “exploratory reasoning” of Muslim scholars
Ali Shah, Mahbub, 200n71 and, 93; limits of, 92. See also pir; qotbs
Ali Shah, Majdhub, 47, 48 authority, textual, 60, 65, 66, 77, 93, 191
Ali Shah, Mast, 47, 48 Awji, Mansur, 17
Alishah, Shaykh Saleh, 22, 49, 173 azadari (mourning, lamentation), 200n84
Ali Suleiymani Mosque (Tehran), 52 azan (Islamic call to prayer), 183, 210n25
“Alizadeh, Sheikh,” 15, 59–61, 66, 93; Azmayesh, Seyed Mustafa, 4, 104, 121, 122;
discussions with students of, 89–90; on “inner m usic,” 131; on Sufism as travel,
on enjoyment of unknowing, 94–95; 179; on zekr as heart of Shi‘ism, 155
hermeneutics of, 77–89; poetic verse as
exegesis, 74–77 Baba Taher, 23, 202n11
Amoli, Ayatollah Abdollah Javadi, 41, 42 Bachelard, Gaston, 86, 162–63, 165
Bagh-e Rezvan cemetery, 141 daf (frame drum), 30, 96, 98, 112, 130, 166; as
Bahai, Sheikh, 34 bridge between hearts, 132; staccato beat as
Baha’i religion, 53–54 mimicry of heartbeat, 131. See also music; zekr
Bahari, Shaykh Muhammad, 41 (remembrance) ritual
Bahjat, Mohammed-Taqi, 33 Damad, Mir, 34
Bahmani, Sultan Ahmad Shah Al Wali, 34, 47 darvish (Sufis), 10, 13, 22, 55, 59, 112; as beggars,
Bastami, 23 50; importance of reading to, 66, 91; local
Bataille, Georges, 121, 193n4 groups of, 43; wandering life of, 173. See also
batin (inner meaning), 67, 69, 76, 90, 93; Sufis and Sufism
endlessness of, 87; “literal” interpretation Dasti, Ali, 50
in contrast to, 175; of poetry, 78, 79; in the Davari, Arash, 118, 119
Qur’an, 77, 78, 91 death, enchantment of, 45
batin al-batin (“inner secret of the inner Deeb, Lara, 14
secret”), 78, 79, 81 Deleuze, Gilles, 25, 177
begging bowl, of mystics (kashkul), 101, 203n4 Derrida, Jacques, 67
Behbehani, Aqa Muhammad Ali, 48 dervishes, 173
“beloved, the,” 43, 73, 116 Deweese, Devin, 194n8
Benjamin, Walter, 119, 143 Diba, Shahbanou Farah, 51
Beydokht pilgrimage site, 136 Divan-I Shams (Rumi), 96
Bezels of Wisdom [Fusus al-Hikam] (Ibn Arabi), divorce law, 51
46, 196n35 Doostdar, Alireza, 7, 11, 30, 43–44
Bistami, Bayazid, 70, 98–99, 103, 105, 203n1 dreaming, 8, 62, 162–63
Blanchot, Maurice, 135, 151, 177 dream interpretation (tabir-e khab), 83–86
body, the: auditory bodies, 130–34; engaged During, Jean, 210n2
in listening, 100, 122, 123, 127; experiential Dyer, Wayne, 44
knowledge from, 101; fana and, 100, 123; ritual
practice and, 130 Early Islamic Mysticism (Sells, 1996), 103
Borujerdi, Ayatollah Seyyed Hossein, 39, 50 Egypt, 7, 15–16, 46, 182
Böwring, Gerard, 202n15, 203n1 Elias, Jamal, 78, 203n16
Boyarin, Jonathan, 20, 195n26 emotion, outpouring of, 57
Buddhism, 44 empiricism, 128, 176–77
“endlessness of meanings” (tamoom nadare), 1
Cage, John, 133 enlightenment, 72–73
calligraphy, 79, 80, 96, 97; in Takteh-Foulad Entesharat-e Haqiqat (Sufi publishing
cemetery, 139; works praising “Hazrat” house), 22
Rumi, 101 erfan (mystical knowledge), 43, 163; as contested
Cancian, Alessandro, 48–49 term, 32–33; genealogy of, 32; as intuition of
Carpenter, Edward, 184 essence, 42; as literary tradition, 25, 30, 32, 35;
case studies, 5, 6, 8–11, 19, 22, 24 nature of pedagogy in, 73; rise of idea in early
Central Asia, 46 modern Iran, 33–36; sociopolitical sphere
chain of succession (silsileh), 22, 77, 199n53 and, 46. See also gnosis; mysticism
charlatanism, 33, 44, 50, 87 esotericism, Western, 44
Christians, 47–48, 53 ethnography, 7, 16, 20, 24, 43, 148
civil society, 51 exorcism, 145
Clifford, James, 24
Coelho, Paulo, 44 fana (dissolution of self/subjectivity), 14, 26–27,
concealment (rozpushi), 88, 185 98, 129, 134; as appearance of the Real, 111–16;
Conference of the Birds [Mantaq-al Tayr] definitions of, 103–6; disappearance of the
(Attar), 45 Unreal and, 106–11; nonexistence (naboodi)
Corbin, Henry, 51 and, 113, 116; tawhid (union with God) and, 15,
Cosmic Mysticism (erfan-e keyhani), 44 99–100; as wandering, 44
226 index
Fanon, Frantz, 118 Hamadani, Mulla Husaynquli Shavandi, 41
faqir (pauper), 13 Hamid Algar, 36
Fardid, Ahmad, 200n71 Hamidi-Esfahani, Hossein, 144
Farsi language, 46, 77, 78 Hanafi school, 53
figurative speech (majaz), 175, 195n32 Hanbali school, 53
fiqh (jurisprudence), 41, 53, 77, 175 haqiqa (literal trope), 175, 176
Firoz-Shah Kotla shrine (Delhi), 7 Haydar Amoli, Sayyed, 23
Fischer, Michael M. J., 12, 20, 22 hazrat (“presence”), 101, 201n87
Fischlin, Daniel, 189 heart, 76; “heart of God” (del-e khoda), 110,
forgetting, 128–30, 155; amnesia and active 204n15; inner heart (ghalb-e batin), 64–70, 71,
forgetting, 142–44; evasion and, 148–50; 93, 202n8; “open heart” (del baz), 1, 91, 172;
Ma‘arif-i Sufiya (1983), 159; “remembering “presence of the heart” (hozur-e del), 43; pure
to forget,” 27, 142–44, 146, 148, 158; willed heart (ghalb-e pak), 62, 71
amnesia, 146, 150–51, 158; zekr as “following Hedayet, Sadeq, 50
forgetfulness,” 155, 157–58. See also memory; Heidegger, Martin, 67
zekr (remembrance) ritual Hekmat, Ali Asghar, 50
fortune-telling, 145 Henriques, Julian, 186
fozul (“busybodies,” possibly informers), 55, hermeneutics, 20, 21, 32, 60, 65, 169, 170;
201n85 dreams and, 84; infinite meaning and, 92;
playful, 172–75, 177; poetic language and, 67;
Ghamari-Tabrizi, Behrooz, 119–20 Qur’anic, 176, 202n15; Sufi/Shi‘i epistemolo-
Gharavi, Grand Ayatollah Sheikh Mohammad- gies and, 69
Hossein Naini, 39 hero (ghahreman), 72
al-ghayb (the hidden), 7, 21, 44 Hikmat Al Muta’alyahfi-l-asfar al-‘aqliyya
Ghazzali, Ahmad, 5, 23, 196n35 al-arba‘a (Sadra), 39
al-Ghazzalli, Abu-Hamid, 11, 122, 124–25, Hirschkind, Charles, 14, 23, 182
205n34; on music and ecstasy, 126–27; on hosseiniyeh [temple, “place of Hossein”] (Sufi
nonunderstanding of sublime reality, meeting place), 52, 54, 135–39, 158, 206n1,
128 207n3
Gleave, Robert, 176 Hu [Allah-Hu] (invocation of name of God), 17,
gnosis (erfan), 3, 26, 75, 193n4, 209n21; as end- 18, 123, 124, 195n23
less process, 177; gnostics (arif/urafa), 13; as al-Hujwiri, 63, 122, 208n1, 208n3
inward dimension of religion, 15; Khomeini humility, 62, 70, 156
and, 32; as musical or literary ritual, 11, 25. Husayn [Hossein] (third Imam), 118–19, 146,
See also unknowing (ma‘rifat) 206n1
“gnostics of the peacock” (tavus-ol urafa), Hussein, Saddam, 152, 154
48
Gonabad, city of, 49, 52, 136 Ibn Arabi, 34, 37, 67, 196n35
Green Movement, 8 Ibrahim, Nur Amali, 174
identity politics, 27, 100, 191
Haddad, Sayyid Hashim, 41 Illuminationists (hikmat-e eshraq), 34
Hadith (sayings of the Prophet), 20, 75, 82, 91 immanence, 114, 126, 127, 129, 176
Haeri, Niloofar, 11, 22, 43, 45, 101 Imperial Iranian Academy of Philosophy, 51
Hafez, 22, 23, 32, 40, 107, 167; knowledge to imperialism, 53, 121
interpret terms used by, 81, 82; rend (rogue) improvisation, 28, 189–92, 210n1
figure in poetry of, 67; teachers of, 73; indexicality, 168, 176
women’s interpretations of Islam and, 43 India, 46, 47, 48, 51, 80–81
hal (heightened emotional state), 30, 114, 128, insan-i kamel (perfected man), 34, 37
129, 178 Institute for the Compilation and Publication
Hallaj, Mansur, 23, 82, 105, 120; Ana al-Haqq of the Works of Imam Khomeini, 38
Reconsidered (1972), 165 intelligentsia, secular, 117
index 227
interpretation, 10, 11, 174; of dreams, 82, 83–86; jinns (spirits), 7, 8, 16
ethnography and, 6; of fana, 114; layers of Junayd, 103, 196n5
meaning and, 94; literal, 168, 175–77; of po- Junayd Baghdadi, 23, 105, 196n35
etry, 21, 40, 71, 83, 84; of the Qur’an, 37, Jurjani, 195n32
75, 77–79, 89, 91, 125; reading as, 77–78. Justice and Remembrance (Sarraj, 2006), 135
See also tafsir
intoxication, 68, 209n9 Kadkani, Shaf ’i, 197n10
Iran, Islamic Republic of, 6, 28, 31, 156; construc- Kafka, Franz, 186
tion of public memory in, 144; ethnic groups Kallilulah, Shah, 46–47
of, 9, 194n9; government effort to sanitize Kant, Immanuel, 92
Shi‘i practice, 145–46; housing in, 165; Karbala, battle of, 141, 154
intellectual trends in, 117; Islam debated in, Karimi, Pamela, 152
186; nuclear program, 42; poetry as source kashf (spiritual unveiling), 201n8
of national pride, 92; status of religious Kashf al-Asrar (Maybudi), 104
minorities in, 53; Sufism in, 52; veterans and Kasravi, Ahmad, 50
patriots of, 45 Kazem, Imam Musa (seventh Shi‘i imam), 199n53
Iranian Revolution, 40, 118 Keeler, Annabel, 202n12
Iranian Sufism in Historical Perspective Kerman, city of, 46
(Zarrinkub, 1972), 197n10 Kernel of the Kernel, The (Tabatabai), 78
Iran-Iraq War, 9, 45, 60, 144; Museum of Stone Ketab al-Fana ( Junayd), 105
and, 141; Shi‘i strategies of remembrance of, Ketabkhane-ye Soltani library, 49
152–55; as war of “the Holy Defense,” 152 Khameini, Ayatollah, 146
“ ‘Irfan’ Revisited: Khomeini and the Legacy Khan, Naveeda, 23, 210n25
of Islamic Mystical Philosophy” (Knysh), 36 khaneqah (Sufi meeting place), 50–51, 52, 54, 112,
Isfahan, xv, 8, 176, 188; cemeteries of, 141; as 135; cancellation by local authorities, 170–72;
cultural capital of Islamic world, 144; municipal mystics living together in lodges, 63; report
government (shahrdari), 137, 144, 160; semi- of session within, 55–58, 57; as Sufi places of
naries of, 47. See also Takhteh-Foulad [Steel worship, 101
Throne] Cemetery Khanlarzadeh, Mina, 119
al-Isfahani, 155, 157, 158 Khayyam, Omar, 74
Isfahani, Mirza Mahdi, 42 Khomeini, Ayatollah Ruhollah, 12, 25, 33, 43,
Islam, 70, 186, 206n53; anthropologies of, 7; 51; as adherent of mysticism, 36; as gnostic
embodied practice in, 130; Islamic philosophy Supreme Leader (rahbar), 36–39; Islam and
(hekmat), 36; literalism in, 175; political Islam, Revolution (1981), 29; Lamp Showing the Right
36, 38. See also Shi‘ism; Sufism Way (1930), 37; poetry of, 37–38, 76, 198n28;
Islam and Literature (Gleave), 176 on validity of mysticism, 29
Islam and Revolution (Khomeini, 1981), 29 Khosronejad, Pedram, 152
Islamic Heritage Sites, 27 Kitab al-Asfar [Book of Journeys] (Sadra), 36–37
“Islamic Philosophy and Sufism in the Con Knot of the Soul (Pandolfo), 7
temporary Shia Seminary and their Oppo- knowledge, 8, 64, 65, 101, 178; amnesia and, 151;
nents (1850–present)” (Asghari), 41 auditory body and, 132; circular exchange of,
Islamic Revolution, 45, 52, 54, 141 91; contained in the heart, 83; creation and
Ismaili, Shah, 197n5 preservation of, 157; derived from poetry,
12; experiential, 133; forms of self and, 15;
Jafar al-Sadeq, Imam (sixth Shi‘i imam), 12, 62, hierarchy of, 78; improvisation and, 191–92;
65, 94, 200n78; esoteric orientation of, 63, interplay of knowing and not-knowing, 126,
201n2; Qur’anic exegesis and, 76, 202n15 127; interpretation of poetry and, 81; limit of,
Ja’fari school of Shi‘ism, 26, 28, 53, 144, 200n78; 5; mysticism as synonym for, 163–64; “secret
“continuous remembering” and, 155, 156, 157; of divine knowledge” (sir-e ma‘rifat), 60; state
zekr and, 156–58 of ecstasy in music and, 126; without teach-
Jews, 53 ers, 61; zekr and, 155
228 index
Knysh, Alexander, 36 mimesis, 130–34
Kurdish regions, 48 Mimesis and Alterity (Taussig), 206n55
Kurdish Sufi Orders, 194n5 mindfulness, 124, 157
Ministry of Culture (Ershad), 54, 201n85
Lamp Showing the Right Way to Viceregency and Mittermaier, Amira, 7, 15–16, 84
Sainthood, The [Misbah al-hidaya ila al-khilafa mokham (direct, clear), 88, 89
wa al-wilaya] (Khomeini, 1930), 37 Moosavi, Amir, 152
Larkin, Brian, 23, 183 Morvarid-e Sufi-Gari (Azmayesh, 2008), 121, 155
Lewis, George, 210n1 Moses, 2
Lienhardt, Godfrey, 16 Motahhari, Mortaza, 36, 40, 43
literacy, 20, 49, 176 mourning rituals, 170
literat ure, Persian (adabiyat), 30, 32 Muhammad, Prophet, 70; descendants of, 31;
logocentrism, 125, 129 night journey to heaven, 141
murshid (guide), 69, 77, 87, 95
Ma‘arif-i Sufiya (Nimatullah Vali, 1983), 159 Musavi, Sayyid Mohammad, 41
madness, ethnography of, 7, 16 music, 123, 126–27, 131–32, 165; assil (“classical”),
mahdaviye (“place of Mehdi”), 55, 200n84 189; broadcast into public space, 186; im-
Mahmood, Saba, 14, 175–76 provised, 189–90; inner music, 131, 133; radif
Majzub’alishah, Hazrat Hajj Nur‘Ali Tabandeh, rhythm structure, 190, 191, 209n20, 210n2;
15, 163 sonati (“traditional” music), 181–82, 189,
Maliki school, 53 209n20. See also daf (frame drum); zekr
Manoukian, Setrag, 12, 16–17, 20, 22 Musicophilia (Sacks), 122
ma‘rifat. See unknowing (ma‘rifat) mutashabih (ambiguity/allegory), 87, 88–89,
Martyn, Henry, 48 176, 177
martyrdom (shahadat), 118–19, 152–53, 154 “Mystical Characteristics of Khomeini, The”
Marxism, 40 (Amoli), 42
Mashhad, city of, 25 Mystical Poems of Rumi (translated by Arberry,
Mashhad Seminary, 41, 42 2010), 177
Masnavi (Rumi), 167, 181 mysticism, 2, 24, 25, 130; application in
materialism, 40, 168, 176 socio-material realm, 4; definitions of, 30;
Mawlana. See Rumi (Mawlana) as hermeneutic device, 43; as “heterodox”
Maybudi, 76, 104 Islam, 25, 31, 32, 38, 43, 45; inner heart and, 71;
McLuhan, Marshall, 184 knowledge as synonym for, 163–64; literary
meaning, external. See zaher (erfan), 25, 30; mystically inclined clerics
meaning, inner. See batin in 20th century, 39–43; non-Sufi mysti-
meditation (fekr va zekr), 113 cal thought in Iran, 43–47; shape-shifting
meeting places. See hosseiniyeh; khaneqah; quality of, 10–11; “simple mysticism” (erfan-e
tekiyeh sadeh), 11
memory: activation of, 115; constant remem- “Mysticism” in Iran: The Safavid Roots of a Modern
brance, 124; construction of public memory, Concept (Anzali), 34
28, 144; dialectics of, 142; gap in, 143; “heart
of memory,” 157; against history, 143; of al-Nabulsi, 76
the Iran-Iraq War, 152–55; unknowing of, nafs-e ammara (lower self/soul), 27, 100, 103,
5, 161–64; “willful amnesia” and, 6; zekr 107, 115
in relation to, 155. See also forgetting; zekr nafs-e mutammin (higher forms of self), 104
(remembrance) ritual Nahj Al-Balaga (sermons of Imam Ali), 61, 156
Messick, Brinkley, 20 Najaf (Iraq), city of, 39, 76, 139
metaphor, 178, 195n32, 196n32, 208n2, 209n9 Najafian, Ahoo, 37–38, 40, 198n28
metaphysics, 115, 123, 126; of aesthetic presence, Naqshbandiyya, 131
127; mimesis and, 131; moved to realm of the Nasr, Seyyed Hossein, 51
unknown, 128 nationalism, 32, 40
index 229
Nayrizi, Qutb al-Din, 41 Persian language, 3, 11, 102, 112; calligraphy, 139;
Nazim al-Haqqani, Sheikh, 78 literature, 26. See also poetry, Persian
neo-Sufism, 44 Piekut, Benjamin, 210n1
Netton, Richard, 129 pir (Sufi masters), 56, 57, 58, 111, 170, 201n88
New Age, 11, 30, 44, 45 pir-murid (teacher-student) relationship, 49,
Nietzsche, Friedrich, 83, 143 63, 64; enlightenment without a teacher,
Nigeria, 183 72–73; Shams and Rumi, 73; varied nature
Nimatullahi Soltanalishahi Order, 4, 15, 122, of, 73
177; on inward and outward dimensions of “Poetic Nation: Iranian Soul and Historical
religion, 15; Saleh’s Advice as a foundational Continuity” (Najafian), 37
text of, 50 Poetics of Space, The (Bachelard, 1994), 165
Nimatullahi Sufi Order, 10, 25, 32, 37, 52, 129; poetry, Persian, 1, 19, 20, 43, 44, 136; as arena
contrast with Ja’fari school on Shi‘i remem- of Sufi infiltration, 44; bayt (lines), 62,
brance, 155–58; departure from Iran, 34; 74, 91, 97; “bodily unconscious” and, 132;
history of, 46–47; India and, 199n52; Pahlavi concealed wisdom in, 88; dream interpre-
regime and, 49–52; in Qajar era, 47–49; tation and, 83–86; esoteric meanings in,
rituals and routine practices of, 55; tawhid 21, 195n32; as form of literary exegesis, 76,
(union with God) and, 103, 173; theories of 77, 202n13; ghazals (love poems), 91, 96;
remembrance, 144 internal meaning (batin) in, 77, 78, 79; of
Nimatullah Vali, Shah, 9, 10, 46, 47, 73, 102; Khomeini, 37–38, 76, 198n28; medieval
lineage of, 199n53; poetry of, 12; shrine of, 46, canon, 23, 167; multiple meanings/interpre-
47; as translator and commentator, 196n35 tations of, 86–89; music and, 181, 182; poesis
noise, 18, 19, 56, 165–66, 182; ambient street or poetics, 12; quoted in casual conversa-
noise, 183; in urban residential neighbor- tion, 74; recitation of, 79; of saints, 67; in
hoods, 180. See also soundscapes sermons, 56; as source of national pride in
nonexistence (naboodi), 15, 111, 116, 117, 128; Iran, 92; “tavern of ruin” as common phrase
fana as, 113, 116; Tabatabai on merits of, 105; in, 113, 114; tawhid (union with God) and, 75;
“tavern of ruin” and, 114; turn to, 27, 100 war poetry, 45; women’s interpretations of
“nonknowledge,” 60, 77, 127, 193n4 Islam and, 43
Nooshin, Laudan, 189–90 politics, xi, 33, 42, 51, 52, 171; apolitics, 159, 163,
“Noroozi, Sheikh,” 17, 18, 19, 59–61, 91, 201n8; on 164; of dread, 138; electoral, 8; geopolitics,
“inner heart” as best teacher, 93; students of, 109, 111; local, 171, 187
70–74, 93; text without end and, 61–71 Porter, Eric, 189
Nurbakhsh, Javad, 12, 104, 126 postmodern literary theory, 26
Nuri, Mulla Ali, 41 Pourjavady, Nasrollah, 122
Nur Street collective, 101–3, 107, 111, 115, 120, 121 prayer beads (tasbih), 66, 97
prayer books (ketab-e dua), 43
Odabaei, Milad, 175 “prison of the nafs” (zendan-e nafs), 115, 116
Olszewska, Zuzanna, 12 propaganda, 153
ostad (master, professor), 30, 97–98; diminishing
role of, 70; of poetry recitations, 79. See also Qaderis (Sunni Kurdish Sufis), 9
pir-murid (teacher-student) relationship Qajar dynasty, 47–49
qalandar (wandering ascetic), 31, 168
Pahlavi, Mohammad Reza, 53 Qawwalis, 81
Pahlavi, Reza Shah, 49, 50 Qom, city/province of, xv, 13, 32; ayatollahs of,
Pakistan, 51, 80–81 76; seminary at, 37, 39, 42
Pandolfo, Stefania, 7, 16 qotbs (spiritual authority figures), 4, 15, 22, 55;
Partovi, Pedram, 152 burial places of, 136; formal portraits of, 97,
path-of-love (rah-e eshq), 45 101, 102; in Nimatullahi Order, 31, 49; ser-
pedagogy, 26, 71, 87, 89, 92; history of erfan and, mons of, 170; wakefulness and, 162. See also
73; limits of, 93 authority, spiritual
230 index
Qur’an, 1, 15, 20, 23, 42, 125; clarity and ambigu- Sadra, Mulla, 11, 34, 36, 39, 82
ity in, 88; cosmos of ideas in, 60; esoteric Safavid dynasty, 31, 196n5; Nimatullahi Order
interpretations of, 21; exegesis of, 76, 77, 89, and, 46–47; Shi‘ism and, 33–34; Sufism and,
92, 104, 202n15; external meaning (zaher) in, 197n14
77, 79; hermeneutics and, 202n15; hidden/ Safi-ad-din Ardaabil, 196n5
inner meaning (batin) in, 69, 77, 78, 91; on Safi Ali Shahi Order, 12
knowledge in the heart (Surah Yusef), 64, 65; saints (vali), 63, 64, 77; appearance in dreams,
memorization of, 59; passages (ayas) from, 16; birthdays of, 101; graves of, 204n14; inner
56; poetry and, 75, 78–79, 91, 202n13; purity heart and, 69; invocations of the names of,
of heart and, 202n12; Qur’anic study groups, 96–97; knowledge of, 65; poems of, 67; wor-
101; recitation of, 181; Surah Al-Rahman, 96; ship of, 12, 102, 194n10
Surat al-Fatiha (opening chapter), 37; tawhid Salafism, 206n53
(union with God) and, 61; zekr as invocation Saleh’s Advice [Pand-e Saleh] (Alishah, 1939), 22,
in, 156, 157, 158 50, 172–73
sama (intentional listening), 23, 28, 122, 168,
radiation therapy, 44 205n34; as catalyst for experience, 126; as
al-R aduyani, Mohammad, 195n32 “classical” Sufi concept, 172; as mimesis,
reading circles (doreh), 19, 26, 59, 64, 66, 89 130–34; tawhid (union with God) and, 169;
Real, the (haqiqat), 17, 18–19, 143, 148, 176, transformation and, 181–82; zekr and, 208n3
195n24; as authenticity, 117; hidden meaning sargardan. See wandering
of poem and, 21; travel from the Unreal to, 103 al-Sarraj, Abu Nasr, 129, 135
reality: illusory nature of, 19, 69, 162; levels Sawaneh (Ghazzali), 5
or stations of, 161–62; multiple planes of Schimmel, Annemarie, 129, 130
(malakut), 76; nonunderstanding of sublime School of Isfahan, 34, 196n35
reality, 128 School of Self-Knowledge (Maktab Ma’rifat
“Religious Perspectives on the Human Rights al-Nafs), 41
Declaration” (Reza Ali Shah), 51 secrets (sirr), 63, 64, 76, 88
repetition, 124, 125 Secrets Behind the Secrets Behind the Secrets, The
“resistance,” 52, 160–61, 171, 187, 188 (Nazim al-Haqqani), 78
reverie, dream contrasted with, 162–63 self: annihilation of (fana), 26–27; destabiliza-
Reza Ali Shah, 51, 52 tion of, 109; dissolution of, 16; formed by
Reza Shah, Mohammad, 87 external and internal forces, 16; return to self
Ricoeur, Paul, 91 versus disappearance of self, 117–21; “return
Risalat al-Walayat (Tabatabai), 105, 202n8 to the self,” 100; self-leadership, 70. See also
Rizvi, Sajjad, 202n8 nafs-e ammara
roozekhaneh (house of prayer), 200n84 self, transformation of, 27, 60, 92, 104; medita-
Rumi, Jalal al-Din (Mawlana), 2–3, 13, 23, tion and, 113; role of teacher or sheikh in, 92;
65, 97, 120, 189; Divan-I Shams, 96; dream tawhid (union with God) and, 100; through
interpretation and, 85; erfan and, 32; on form acquisition of unknowing, 75. See also fana
and formlessness, 191; Masnavi, 167, 181; self-help gurus, 44
mutashabih (ambiguity/allegory) and, 88; as seminaries, Shi‘ite (howzeh-ha), 13, 25, 31, 35,
sedentary mystic, 208n1; Shams as teacher/ 194n17; debates and mystical thought in, 42;
mentor to, 73, 172, 202n10; as “The Silent of Isfahan, 47; Socratic method in, 68
One” (Khamushi), 133; on songs of paradise, sermons (sokhanrani), 22, 23, 54, 170; on cas-
188; on wandering, 177; women’s interpreta- sette, 182; in meeting place session, 56–57
tions of Islam and, 43 Seyed-Gohrab, Ali Asghar, 195n32
Shafi’i school, 53
Sa’adi, 2, 23, 32, 43, 77 Shahabadi, Muhammad Ali, 36
Sabzavari, Husayn, 36 Shahnameh epic, 72
Sabzevari, Hamid, 45 shahrdari (municipal authorities), 137, 144, 160,
Sacks, Oliver, 122 169, 170, 207n3
index 231
Shahr-I Mazuma (Sabzavari), 36 178; Qur’anic hermeneutical periodization,
Shams, 12, 73, 172, 202n10 202n15; settled versus wandering, 208n1;
Shams, Fatameh, 45 underground aspect of, 186, 187; variety of
Shannon, Jonathan Holt, 130 self-descriptions, 13; Western views of, 31.
shari’at (outward ethical rules), 14, 15 See also erfan; gnosis
Shariati, Ali, 6, 27, 36, 43, 121; “desert contempla- al-Sulami, 202n15
tions” of, 120; on the martyr (shahid), 118–19; Sunnism, 88, 92, 154
“return to the self ” and, 100, 118 superstition (khorafa), 44
sheikhs, 59–61, 72, 92, 97, 103, 164; memories
of Takhteh-Foulad Cemetery and, 147–48; Tabandeh, Hajj Nur‘Ali, 4–5, 177
wakefulness and, 162 Tabatabai, Allameh Sayyed Mohammad, 12, 25,
Shi‘ism, 9; “Esoteric Shi‘ism” (Shi‘i theosophy), 33, 39–40, 201n8; exegesis of the Qur’an, 89;
34, 41; hierarchy in, 72; holy sites of, 139; The Kernel of the Kernel, 78; on nonexistence,
Iran-Iraq War remembrance and, 152–55; 117; Risalat al-Walayat, 105, 202n8
jurisprudence, 88; Larger Occultation, 94; Tabatabai, Ayatollah Seyyed Ali Qadi, 39
quietist form of, 51; Safavid dynasty and, Tafkiki (Separation) School, 42
33–34; sanitized public image of shrines, tafsir (textual interpretation), 26, 63, 201n8,
144–46; as state religion of Iran, 36. See also 203n16; poetry as form of, 91; Qur’anic, 67,
Twelver Shi‘ism 76, 79; of Rumi, 97; spoken and written, 80
silence, 87, 133–34 Tafsir Al-Mizan (Tabatabai), 39
simile, 104, 195n32 Takhteh-Foulad [Steel Throne] Cemetery
Soltan Ali Sufi Order, 12 (Isfahan), 27, 135, 136, 141–44, 146, 206n2;
Sonbolan cemetery, 141 apolitical response to demolition, 164;
soundscapes, 23, 168–69, 171, 172, 175; expansive built in Safavid era, 207n3; demolition of
potential of auditory/acoustic space, 183–86; hosseiniyeh/tekiyeh (2009), 137–39, 145;
perception of sound, 184; space and audition, disparate recollections of, 146–48; forget-
182–83; working-class urban housing and, ting as evasion and, 148–50; Garden of the
180–81 Martyrs (Golestan-e Shodada), 139, 141, 153;
Spadola, Emilio, 23 government-promoted image as abandoned
spirit (ruh), 76 site, 145; Mausoleum of Baba Rokn-Al
spiritual lineage (selsele), 10 Din, 139; Mausoleum of Mir Fendereski,
students (murid, taleban), 13, 26, 112, 122, 173 139; museums of, 141; mystical approach to
subjectivity, 6, 14; destabilization of, 16, 100; dis- demolition, 160; Seyed al-Araghaen tekiyeh
solution of, 17; reconfiguration of, 106; tawhid (tomb), 140, 141; willed amnesia about tekiyeh
(union with God) and, 100, 101; transforma- building, 150–51
tion of, 104, 114. See also self Takhteh-Foulad Cultural Organization, 144–45
submission, language of, 14 Tamerlane, 46
Sufi orders (tariqeh), 9, 15, 61, 129, 194n8; meta Taneja, Anand, 7
phors of wandering and, 178; theologians’ tariqa (mystical path), 61
disdain for, 33; zekr rituals and, 129, 131 tasavvuf (scholarly mysticism), 25, 30, 32, 36, 43,
Sufis and Sufism (sufigari), 1, 10, 14, 30–31, 35, 112; Shi‘i theosophy and, 33; Tabatabai and, 40
43, 187; ambiguity of, 25; anti-Sufi clerics, Taussig, Michael, 24, 132, 206n55
48; bookstores and libraries, 22; as debate Tawasil, Amina, 175
topic in seminaries, 48; divergence between tawhid (union with God), 14, 17, 87, 103; books
theologians and Sufis, 33; goals of, 18; and reading as path to, 61; dissolution of
hierarchy in, 65, 72; individualized nature of, the self and, 100, 101; hidden/inner mean-
93; inner music and, 133; as “interior Shi‘ism,” ing (batin) and, 91; ideal progression for
48; interpretations of poetry and, 21; “Iranian achievement of, 122; interpretations of poetry
Sufism,” 6, 194n5; in the Islamic Republic, 52; and, 75; memory and, 147–48; in quotidian
legal status of, 54; meeting place (khaneqah), moments, 18, 19; sama and, 169; society and,
27; as obtainment of gnostic knowledge, 120; unknowing (ma‘rifat) of text and, 92;
232 index
wakefulness and, 162; wandering and, 168; wanderers/wayfarers (salik/salik-ha), 13,
zekr ritual and, 115 28, 31
Tehran, city of, 9, 55, 170; Ali Suleiymani wandering (sargardan, suluk), 6, 36–37, 41,
Mosque, 52; noise in residential neighbor- 167, 208n1; of ascetics searching for perfect
hoods, 180; war museums and statues in, 153 teacher, 172; begging and, 172–73, 208n5; as
tekiyeh [tomb] (Sufi meeting place), 135, 150, 151, “classical” Sufi concept, 172; as game (bazi),
206n1; destruction of Takteh-Foulad tekiyeh, 173–74; intentional, 170, 177–80; “literal”
146, 159; Seyed al-Araghaen tekiyeh, 140, 141 interpretation and, 176; monikers of Sufi
text, endlessness of, 67, 68 self-description, 178–79; as vanishing
“third eye,” 64 practice, 173
Tihrani, Seyed Mohammad Husayn Husayni, Westernization, opposition to, 51
12, 41 “Westoxification” [Gharbzadegi] (Al-e Ahmad),
time, perception of, 127 117
Toop, David, 184 Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 67
Torab, Azam, 101 women, 43, 45, 58, 108
“Torment, The” (Bataille, 1998), 121 Writing of the Disaster, The (Blanchot, 1982),
transformation. See self, transformation of 135, 177
Turkey, 48
al-Tustari, 76 Yafe‘i, Sheikh Abdollah, 46
Twelver Shi‘ism, 9, 12, 13, 194n10; hazrat (“pres- Yazdi, Ayatollah Mohammad Taghi Mesbah, 36
ence” of twelve imams), 56, 201n87; Iranian Yazdi, Mirza Ali, 36
mystical thought divergent from, 25; jurispru-
dence of, 34; mysticism in relation to, 38–39. Zahabiyya Sufi Order, 41
See also Ja’fari school of Shi‘ism Zahediya Sufi Order, 196n5
zaher (external meaning), 67, 76, 77, 79, 175,
ulama (clergy), 25, 29, 47–48 176
unconscious, the, 8 Zahir od-Dowle Order, 51
Universal Declaration of Human Rights, 51 zanjeer-zani (self-flagellating mourning prac-
unknowing (ma‘rifat), 17, 67, 167, 193n4; affective tice), 146
and sensory dimensions of, 5; of the body, Zarrinkub, Abdul Husayn, 197n10
121–23, 133; definitions of, 4–5, 6; as endless Zayandeh river, xv–xvi
process, 5, 92; epistemologies of, 21; improvisa- Zaydi school, 53
tion and, 189–92; interpretations of, 3–4, 10; zekr (remembrance) ritual, 6, 26, 96–99, 103,
known through experience, 64; of memory, 106, 143; dissolution of the self and, 100;
161–64; of self, 100, 104, 116; subjectivity and, forgetting and, 27–28, 128–30, 135, 164; as
15; of text, 92. See also gnosis (erfan) heart of Shi‘ism, 155; incomprehensibility
Unreal, the (khiyali, vehmi), 18–19, 21, 44, 105, of the divine and, 124–25, 126; Ja’fari versus
143, 195n24; fana and disappearance of, Nimatullahi understanding of, 155–58; at
106–11; as inauthenticity, 117; liminality and, juncture of material and immaterial, 123;
208n15; memory and, 144; travel to the Real mimesis and, 131; as musical ritual, 5, 98; as
from, 103 negation of the Unreal, 109, 110; Nur Street
collective and, 101, 102, 111; poetry and, 80; as
vaghf-nameh (founding document of endow- quotidian practice, 112–13; reading and, 62;
ment), 54, 207n3 as release from everyday troubles, 107, 108,
Vakili, Mohammad Hasan, 41 109; remembrance of God (zekr-e khoda), 112,
Van den Bos, Matthijs, 52 115; sama (intentional listening) and, 128, 181;
Varzi, Roxanne, 152 silent, 147; society and, 120; vocalization in,
123–26, 127; void and, 151. See also forgetting;
wahdat al-wujud (unity of existence), 34 memory
wajd (unveiling), 126, 127, 129 Zoroastrians, 53
index 233

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unknowing and the everyday

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duke university press Durham and London 2023

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data

Duke University Press gratefully acknowledges the Hull Memorial

29 1 Sufism in Iran, Iran in Sufism

59 2 Unknowing of Text, Unknowing of Authority

96 3 Unknowing of Self, Unknowing of Body

135 4 Unknowing of Memory

165 5 Unknowing of Place

I owe my greatest debt to all t­ hose who shared their wisdom,

xii acknowl­e dgments

acknowl­e dgments xiii

xiv acknowl­e dgments

Sometimes, in Isfahan, a river appears. When it is t­ here, it runs

Andam keh mara beh gherd-­e to doran ast

The moment in which I turn round and round, circulating

Ey aql boro keh aqel inja nist

O reason, begone! ­There is no wiseman h­ ere

“Not exactly his best,” I remarked, unimpressed. ­After a moment had

What is unknowing (ma‘rifat)? It is a concept that is first and foremost

The Sufi Ties That Bind

Transfigurations of the Self

The Real and the Unreal

Textual Ethnography and the Hermeneutic Imagination

Aesthetics and Affect

In order to trace ­these aforementioned intangible theories, I hope to pro-

chapter one: sufism in iran, iran in sufism

My first chapter explores the complexities b­ ehind the category of “mys-

My second chapter analyzes the transformative power of textual interpre-

chapter three: unknowing of self, unknowing of body

My third chapter investigates the relationship between the Sufi remem-

chapter four: unknowing of memory

My fourth chapter traces an instance of the destruction of a Sufi meeting

chapter five: unknowing of place

My fifth and final chapter focuses on the relationship between concepts

I conclude my book by thinking about the utilization of unknowing

We find certain scholars . . . ​denying the validity of mysticism and thus

It was always difficult to discern which moments of my time in Iran

30 Chapter One

Sufism in Iran, Iran in Sufism 31

Sufism versus Mysticism versus Erfan: Contested Terms

Before delving into the genealogy of erfan, it is impor­tant to recognize the

32 Chapter One

The Rise of the Idea of Erfan in Early Modern Iran

Sufism in Iran, Iran in Sufism 33

34 Chapter One

Sufism in Iran, Iran in Sufism 35

The Gnostic as Supreme Leader (Rahbar)

Ruhollah Khomeini began his studies in mysticism while a seminary stu-

36 Chapter One

Sufism in Iran, Iran in Sufism 37

I have become imprisoned, O beloved, by the mole on your lip!

38 Chapter One

Mystically Inclined Clerics in Twentieth-­Century Iran

In other words, he declared that he would continue to teach the material

Sufism in Iran, Iran in Sufism 39

40 Chapter One

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

I owe my greatest debt to all t hose who shared their wisdom,

xii acknowle dgments

acknowle dgments xiii

xiv acknowle dgments

Sometimes, in Isfahan, a river appears. When it is t here, it runs

Andam keh mara beh gherd-e to doran ast

O reason, begone! There is no wiseman h ere

“Not exactly his best,” I remarked, unimpressed. After a moment had

In order to trace these aforementioned intangible theories, I hope to pro-

My first chapter explores the complexities b ehind the category of “mys-

We find certain scholars . . . denying the validity of mysticism and thus

Before delving into the genealogy of erfan, it is important to recognize the

Mystically Inclined Clerics in Twentieth-Century Iran

Non-Sufi Mystical Thought in Contemporary Iran

I have previously described mysticism in Iran as a shape-shifter, but it might

Despite these affiliations and attempts at ingratiation, however, the fact

figure 1.1 Imam Ali birthday (moludi) celebration in a khaneqah,

I had a list of questions, prepared interviewer that I was. Th ese questions

fter my discussions with Sheikh Noroozi regarding interpretation and his

In Iran, it is very common for p eople to quote poetry in casual conver-

Although h ere the dangers of ambiguous verses are expressed, especially